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Two Five In Oh Nine (Or Why It’s Your Fault I’m Jobless)

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The economy, my mother, and if I look enough into it, you’re probably at fault as well. Oh don’t try and look so innocent, you thirty-something-year-old. You with your life-knowledge, your established paycheck, your mortgage, and your family. Whose wise idea was it to grow up anyway? Sure as hell not mine. I tried to postpone it as much as I could, but college and twenty-two candles on a birthday cake crept up on me and said, “BOO! You’re an adult!” “Fine, fine,” I said. “But don’t expect me to like it.”

And so here I am, a quarter of a century year old. Freshly hungover from my second quarter-life crisis; which entails buying yourself a spankin’ new shiny red stroller, hanging out with Barbie and Kelly and ending arguments by plugging your fingers into your ears and singing, “NA NA POOPOO HEAD, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!”

So, of course, like every other twenty-something year-old out there with a post-quarter-life crisis (symptoms include putting way too many hyphens when writing), I go online and (look for a job? No.) get on my blog to rant about how “it is SO my mom’s fault for making life so easy for me all this time, of courseI’m going to act like a spoiled-brat when a job offers less than $10 an hour.” “No, no,” my dear readers comment, “it’s the economy.” And every phone call echoes the last one, in an ongoing cycle of “Oh I know people with Master’s that are working at grocery stores!” or “it took John SIX months to find a job!” So it’s the economy’s fault that I don’t have a job? Well then, the economy better write me a freaking check because I have a cat to feed. I went on the job interview for the wine-broker job (“But Mae, I thought you were a teacher?” I am. Which is why the next logical step is to get a job that will get support your drinking habit. Darned kids.) all decked out in professional attire and professional attitude, applying every Law Of Attraction, Eckhart Tolle theory, and Wayne Dyer’s Tao to my thinking twenty-four hours prior to the job. Did I get it? No. You did. You with the two-plus year experience and the three kids to feed. You with the house. You with the two college degrees. You who wished you still looked like you were my age, who counts your carbs, you had it tough, but now you have the job and oh thank God. You. So it’s your fault I didn’t get the job.

It’s not mine. It’s not because I don’t try hard enough every day; it’s not because I didn’t bust my spoiled-bratty toosh through four years of university (which I didn’t pay a dime for); it’s not because I am waking up at 10:30 a.m. instead of 8:00 a.m. to try and find a job; it’s not because I spend way too much time on Facebook.com and not enough on Monster and Careerbuilder—it is entirely, solely, consummately, exclusively you, my mother, and the economy’s fault. So therefore, I will sit here, in a very Hamlet-esque “Woe-is-me” fashion, and cry and complain and blog about how awful it is to be twenty-five years old in 2009, how truly unfair and unjust the world is for not giving me what I so rightfully deserve by my mere existence.

We are all trying hard. Some of us harder than others. Yes the economy is being cruel, yes they are hiring just one two people and not sixty, yes yes yes. But there is no justice in stating the unjust. There is no success in stating failure. Keep looking, quit your crying. That’s all I can tell myself in times like these and hope that tomorrow my inbox will carry some good news.

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