thoughts on turning 24

on being unemployed and acting my age

my sixth birthday

If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want to grow up. Call me childish, call me stupid, call me whatever but I have no interest in being a part of the so-called American Dream of “Adulthood”- sue me. I am a classic case of “gifted child” turned burnt out twenty-something with the crippling fear of never living up to the weighty expectations I placed on myself years ago- aka failure.

I turned twenty four on a grey Thursday in the middle of January, the only remarkable thing about it being that it was a balmy 40 degrees in the middle of an otherwise below freezing week. I think I was meant to be born jaded. What my mom called “snarky” and “pessimistic” as a child was once adorable, seeing such grouchy old man traits in a seven year old body, but considerably less cute on a fully developed, depressed adult. I think a lot of it stems from being overly aware of the economic impact that the 2008 recession had on families across the United States at the ripe age of eight years old. I’m familiar with the power that jobs and money have over the happiness and wellbeing of a person. If you don’t think that money buys happiness let’s have a chat. Seriously. I want to know what that’s like.

I spent the last three months of being twenty three unemployed, ass on my couch seven days a week, eyes glued to LinkedIn and obsessively refreshing my email for someone- anyone please I beg of you- to offer me the opportunity to even interview for a job. It is soul crushing. Ask anyone. The only small comfort I found in all this was that everyone who heard that I was struggling with the job search looked at me with such knowing eyes, like they wanted to put a hand on my shoulder, and said that they had been there, too, and that it did, in fact, fucking suck.

I turned twenty-four and after months of endlessly coming up with different ways to phrase “entry level job in literally any field I don’t care what it is as long as it doesn’t require any experience because I’m an idiot who majored in art-why fucking art, who let me pick a career path at eighteen- and has no real world job experience please hire me please” I was offered one job. One. The first job to offer me a single crumb and I took it. You are now looking at the newest waitress/bartender at the local bar fifteen minutes away from my shitty one bedroom apartment in the ‘burbs.

Remember when I said I was terrified of failure? This is it. This is what I’m scared of. Mediocrity. One small step from completely flopping. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a waitress or bartender, tips are great and it’s hard work, lifers I applaud you. Every restaurant needs a server with 20+ years of experience to breathe their life essence into the next generation of service industry greats. I’ve been a waitress for four years. I’m good at it. I’m fucking great at it, actually. I can split a check 28 ways, carry 40 entrees up a flight of stairs, hand everyone the right dish with the right sides, and hand the bill to the right person every single time without missing a beat. I even write “thank you” with a smiley face on each check personally. I’m fucking good is what I’m saying, let me brag, please.

I’m mortified that being a waitress might be the best it gets for me. It’s not very stable, hours are shit anyway you look at it, no health benefits, no paid vacation, little to no holidays off, none of that fancy shit that “real” jobs have. But if I’m being honest, which I am because it’s just me here, I don’t think I want a “real” job. I am shit at waking up before 9 am. I am not good at sitting all day. I’m really not even good at graphic design. I have a degree in it, sure, it’s my four year badge of honor I wear with pride. But I’m really only good at charcoal drawings of naked people and weird cartoons of my college roommate’s dog. I’m sure the jobs that glanced at my resume and took the time out of their day to look thoughtfully at my portfolio were not too happy to find drawings of frogs smoking joints and beautifully rendered greyscale portraits of me drinking wine in a bathtub topless. I’m scared that I am a failure in the adult sense of the world. As charming as it is to feel like a character in Friends at times, looking for a job and drinking coffee in cute shops with all my new found free time, it is slightly less cute in reality when rent is due and I almost crashed my car on the highway on my the twenty minute drive to the nearest coffee shop in the city where a latte after tip- because I’m not an asshole and I tip my sister employees- is fucking eight dollars are you kidding me.

I’ve made a list of resolutions for this year because no matter how many times I think “New Years is no different that just any other day, why put so much emphasis on changing right now when you could decide to change at any point you want?” I still end up making a long list in the notes app on my phone of things I want to change about myself. The past year has been uncomfortable with change, quitting jobs, leaving behind friends, moving to a new city and trying to find my footing in a place where even just driving is intimidating- why are there so many highways and where do they even lead to and why doesn’t anyone understand merging? My biggest and most intimidating resolution is to fail at something. Fail hard. Flat on my face maybe. Embarrass myself. Really experience what it is that I am so scared of. Face that shit eye to eye and be a failure.

I’ve been playing pickle ball with my dad lately, the infamous new American pastime. I was pretty good at tennis in high school and I’m at least twenty years younger than my youngest opponent, so I was a bit cocky walking into my first match with my dad’s buddies. Piece of cake, my knees are in great shape, I thought. I was humbled five minutes or less. I lost every game. I swatted at air. Got hit by the ball. Couldn’t land a single serve. I ended up on the floor a few times. I thought my dad would be too embarrassed to invite me back to his sacred dojo. I hate being bad at things. But no matter how sweaty and frustrated I got, he told me over and over again that famous line from the great Ted Lasso, “You wanna know what the happiest animal on Earth is? It’s a goldfish.” It’s nearly impossible to be depressed when you have a ten second memory. I’m going to be a fucking goldfish. This year I am going to fail. I’m going to cry big ugly tears, I’m going to scape my knee, I’m going to lose every match, I’m going to write terrible poetry, I’m going to sing at the top of my lungs off-key with my whole chest, I’m going to get rejected from a hundred more jobs and I couldn’t be more excited.