Rather, it has settled into a fine, enervating, shattered-life rubble dust coating every surface as far as mine eyes can see, etc.
I have given up hoping I will have some tidy happy ending involving quickly landing an ideal job, decent apartment, and casual return to the gym and my normal operating girlish figure, which I assure you is wanting, under the best of circumstances, but turns quickly to mush when you’re…burdened…by trifles like being without a home of your choosing.
I’ll just be getting on with it now, won’t I, this day-to-day living thing. First step: steady income. As it happens, I’ve managed that whole 3-6 month cash cushion, except for the fact that I want to remain in New York, which really means I have a 2-3 month cushion. I can get through the year just fine, maybe even hit my birthday before I worry, as long as I am careful and don’t go tossing cash away on things like this or this, asmuchasIreallyreallywantto.
Which of course means I plan to start temping.
Which of course means I will once again have plenty to bitch and blog about. Like long, expensive commutes into a working environment in which I will be disposable, overqualified, and generally disrespected. So, same-old, with worse pay and no benes. Balls.
Which reminds me–can someone explain to me how it is that the pay for temp work has remained static over the last 5 years, since the last time I temped? Anybody? Is the profit margin for the agencies growing, at least? Somehow, I would rather believe agencies are hoarding all the profit than accept that wages are just that sad, despite skyrocketing costs of living. Oh, right. Yeah. Nevermind.
The funny thing is, I just want to get settled into a decent enough position to cover rent (I can handle bills for a bit through savings) and leave me enough free time to maybe stage at ICE, maybe write an article here and there on the side. And the fact that I’m not looking for a career right now so much as a job means I am really just considering doing things I think will be amusing. Do I want to work in a coffee shop? Hop over to Europe and nanny illegally, like a friend of mine? Be one of those angry-bitter hostel workers who live for free in exchange for dealing with irritating young travelers with their scuzzy-traveler stench? (I say this having earned the right to do so–I was one of those stinky little bastards, once.) Or should I take my ability to manage difficult personalities, flawless Microsoft Word, and slighty-less-flawless Excel and PowerPoint skills and become some hedge-fund EA, make an assload, under pressure for a year, and then take 30 off? I’m really enamored of that idea, taking 30 off. “And what do you do?” strangers will ask. “Oh nothing. I’ve decided to sit out 30.” It’d be great.
And that’s another thing. I’ll be 29 in a few months. I’m looking forward to the cake and all, but I’m not sure I’m happy about being this rootless so late in life. Shouldn’t I be worrying about a condo mortgage by now? Because, after this whole moving ordeal, part of me really, really, really wants to have a place to rest my Fluevogs that is absolutely (or at least, mostly) inviolable–no entry without my permission, no sharing, no complaints about when or where I drop my coat.
Anyway. If I’m to see the shiny happy goodness underneath it all, I need to get to cleaning.
One upside to temping is that could present networking opportunities. The job I have now is because a manager on my temp gig was married to a manager looking to fill a slot at my current employer. She made the recommendation and the rest, as they say, is history.