When I grow up

I received two rejections last week. Of the silent kind.

The rejection is normal, it is the silence that drives me batty. A quick thanks, but no thanks is truly the best way to go. I hate waiting by the phone. But, who cares, that’s not what I wanted to write about today. I wanted to write about something else.

I applied for a job today. And not just because the government makes me.

I found a job that had a job description that made me smile. Not because it was well written. Lord knows how HR people write. I mean, just kidding, they are scholars, you know, Harvard-like.

It made me smile. The job. It reminded me of the kind of job I made myself promise I would get. When I was in college I made a mental note never to work in a drab office. No. If I was going to work the place had to have soul, history, buzz. And I kept that promise, at least in my early twenties. I worked in a newsroom, a TV station, a radio station, a converted house and a refurbished hotel. Not bad for a post-pubescent promise.

Although I don’t regret working for the big boys, I always felt like I was pretending. Right back to when I was a little girl and would play office  in my mother’s pearls, pumps and blue blazer with gigantic shoulder pads (it was the eighties). I would on occasion throw on one of my father’s ties when my imagination demanded a promotion (Again, it was the eighties, Ronald Reagan, Boy George and Annie Lennox were all the rage.).

So, I applied for this job, as I’m sure the dress code is very relaxed. Keeping in theme, I relaxed my qualifications and abbreviated my resume to compete against young twenty-somethings. Oh, they are going down! I will work for fun! Even, if I have to move in with my grandma (The pay scale for this job is from the eighties as well.)!