Your Unemployed Daughter

photo credit: Jeffrey Guterman

Today’s morning: wake up, make bed, don workout gear, consume coffee, attend spin class with mom, eat, shower. Since then I’ve been holed up in my room trying to get some things done lest next week is a total nightmare. Work, work, work. For an “Unemployed” person, I sure have a lot of work.

But the presents are wrapped, and there is turkey in the oven, and good smells in the house. B&S are here, and there is a general feeling of goodwill and resistance to snap judgments in the air, even if last night I did drink too much wine and made at least one error in judgment, snap or otherwise.

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Alas, returning to society today, via bus, train, and likely automobile (or MTA, should I become inspired). Boo.

Back when I was a high schooler, I always thought I wanted to be a big-time New York City lawyer, or a novelist living in a cabin in Maine. Instead I became a “big-time” (ie., small-to-middling-time) New York City magazine person. And then a New York City unemployed person.

Something in me still loves the idea of hunkering down in a little house through the dead of winter, writing mysteries a la Jessica Fletcher, but a little less Lansbury, and surviving on stew and red wine—and, of course, biking into the village to take yoga classes and shop for fresh bread and organic veggies and chat up hunky fishermen.

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