I remember being in third grade, and my teacher giving me the multiplication problem 12 x 4. “You can’t just keep adding four over and over again,” she told me, “you have to actually learn how to multiply. My job is to prepare you for fourth grade!”
New teachers said the same sort of thing every year. Middle school was about preparing us for high school. High school was about prepping for college. And by the end of college, they told us we would be ready for “the real world.”
But, they skipped a step. No one prepared us for—or even told us about—Post Grad Purgatory.
“The real world,” or so I’ve been told, is a place where people have careers and apartments and can pay for insurance with their own moneys. Once upon a time, I believed that right after graduation, I would move there.
But finding a job was really difficult. I majored in English Literature and Theatre Arts. If that doesn’t scream, “I have 1 million marketable skills,” I don’t know what does. Everyone assumed I’d be analyzing sonnets for the CIA within weeks after graduation, but as it turned out, it wasn’t that easy.
I started applying for jobs in January, and by “applying for jobs,” I mean that I emailed a bunch of people who never emailed me back. As graduation grew closer, I became sad and desperate, which mostly just means that I ate a lot of ice cream sandwiches and listened to a lot of Taylor Swift. Her song “22” began to feel terribly distant from my own reality. “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU! BUT I’M FEELING 22! NOTHING EVER TURNS OUT RIGHT! THIS APARTMENT SMELLS LIKE POO,” I’d sing to my empty living room.
It was around this time that I finally applied for a job as a dog walker, despite having no particular passion for walking or dogs. The qualifications didn’t include a college degree, but that didn’t matter—I just wanted something to put on my LinkedIn profile. Unfortunately, I never heard back. “THAT’S IT.” I told myself. “Prostitution it is!” But for some reason, my parents thought it was a better idea for me to just move back in with them.
It’s not a bad deal, moving back home: you get free housing, access to a fully stocked pantry, and occasionally, when your mother is feeling particularly generous, laundry services. Regrettably, you also have to sleep in a bedroom that looks like a shrine to your 15-year-old self, and… you’re living with your parents.
When I first moved back home, what with not having a job or many friends in the area, I suddenly had an outrageous amount of free time on my hands. I thought it would be a great time to take up new hobbies, like sleeping and playing Candy Crush Saga on my phone. But when I rediscovered Netflix, I started wondering why I had ever bothered with friends or hobbies at all. I started partying all night with my new best buds: Walter White, Lucille Bluthe, and the entire cast of ‘Lost.’
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| Henry and I break bad together on a crazy Friday night. |
By week three of summer, my life revolved around two main goals: Getting a job, and never having to change out of my pajamas. Because despite my surplus of free time, I didn’t dare leave the house—it was dangerous! Just going to the market was like attending a hometown reunion. “Nope, I still don’t have a job!” I’d awkwardly confess to various old acquaintances while purchasing several bottles of wine. “Why yes, I am still living with my folks! Be sure and tell that law school son of yours I say ‘hello!’”
The good news is that I actually ended up getting a job, and not as a dog walker—I’m exactly where I want to be at this point in life. I have a desk and a file cabinet and a phone, so even though I’m pretty sure my office has asbestos, I get to spend every day pretending to be a real grown-up human being. And at the end of the day I get to walk through my door, throw down my bag, and exclaim, “Another day, another dollar!”
Because literally. Starting salaries are $1 per day. Farewell, post grad purgatory, and welcome to… what?
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ReplyDeleteHi Liz, just emailed you. Thanks for reaching out!
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