Today marks the monthiversary of my unemployment. I’ve had a difficult time adjusting though I do enjoy not working. I have shallower wrinkles and everyday is Friday.
On my first night of freedom, I went to a concert at the Great Hall and considered all the 20 and 30 somethings in attendance who seemed to have enough freedom to rock out until the late hours of a Thursday night. “This new life of mine is pretty rad!” I told myself, co-opting the lexicon of the youth I desperately sought to emulate. “This is the beginning of a brand new me. Who will I be?” I was, that night, a woman who rejected potential suitors due to discoloured front teeth, a stature smaller than my own and a nubby ring finger whose tip had been lost in some industrial accident (truth be told, I don’t place much stock in the ring finger but his self-consciousness about it killed any hope). I was happy to discover that despite the upheaval, my inner asshole was still intact.
Later that night, I played this on repeat for a spell:
Crazytown, right?!
I submitted to the deluge that had been threatening to surge from my tear ducts since that afternoon when I’d been made redundant over cold, albeit BPA free, tofu soup. As I came to terms with the fact that my three-and-a-half year vocational relationship had come to an end, I realized that the time had come to make smarter career choices … soon …ish.
There are definitely some benefits to being unemployed. I’m available to anyone for anything at the drop of a hat. Adventures? And how! The 3 o’clock sun casts a delightful light on the streetscape where I spend much of my time walking since paying for public transit doesn’t quite fit into my new austerity budget. I also enjoy being out late on Sunday night and I was surprised to find a group of people my age who don’t seem to have Monday morning obligations. For example, the folks I see jamming out at the Dakota on a Sunday night are the self-same people stuffing their faces with pie at Wanda’s on a Monday at noon or trawling through Bloorcourt on a Thursday afternoon. And they’re my age, too! Joy of joys, I can camouflage my dirtbaggery among the spotted west end leopards! I’m so happy I changed my spots!
Another bonus is that I’ve had plenty of time to stay up on all the latest YouTube cat/baby/upstart teen pop sensation videos and pretending to be an “artist” has never been easier. “I’m writing this afternoon” is code for “OMG! Friday is a total joke song, right?! I have to watch it again to make sure.” A more pragmatic benefit is that I can do a load or two of nighttime laundry at the local without having to clamour for a machine alongside my fecund neighbours and their acrobatic brood. And, I discovered that the enigmatic 402 Parkdale Community Bus ACTUALLY exists. It’s not just an urban legend as previously thought.
I look back on the month, a pretty destitute one considering the two-job lifestyle I’d grown accustomed to in my former life as an overworked chump, and don’t have much to show for it except maybe for hypersensitivity to the sun at its zenith and the stirrings of a drinking problem. But my skin has never looked better!
Onto the next adventure …
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