I love you Boxer Shorts!

Dear Boxer Shorts:

How could I have forsaken you so easily? I used to think you were weighing me down by not making me look appropriate to go out on errands or for being the constant reminder of how unemployed, broke and sad I was. But now I realize this wasn’t your fault. You were just along for the ride, offering comfort and camouflage for my thighs. I didn’t realize how good I had it with you, Boxers. I have nothing left to lose so I will just get straight to the point… I miss you.

This work stuff isn’t all it’s cut out to be. You should have told me it was going to be like this when you watched me dispose of you triumphantly, thinking my days of depression and questionable self esteem would be over. But that is not the case. Now depression happens in the mornings when I need to wake up at six to a jingle from my cell phone I have come to hate but cannot be bothered to change it because I would still have to get up at six and hate the new jingle all over again and it’s not really its fault.

My first thought every day upon awakening is “Shit, I have to go to work”. Actually it’s more like “Oh for fucks sake, Jesus Mary and Joseph, motherfucker! I have to go to this shithole again!”  And of course, everything is downhill from there. The next eight hours are spent in absolute boredom deprived of any technology that has thrived in the past ten years. That is correct, no internet, no computers, no Facebook. Do you understand my pain?

I have no choice but to rely on the “Countdown game”. I watch the minutes pass by, growing miserable with every tick of the clock because it moves slower than a turtle swimming in honey. Even when I decide to test my self control and not look at the clock for long periods of time -you know, just for entertainment’s sake- I only manage to do it for ten minutes at a time. It gets old quickly, this game.

“All right, two more hours and a half before lunch. Two hours and twenty minutes. Holy crap! Twenty whole minutes without looking. Two more hours. God, this sucks!”

I still remember the days you hugged my lower body while I sat down for hours, googling the oddest things:

I am 22 and unemployed. Any advice?

 How to make blueberry muffins. 

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Hyperbole and a Half

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The Meaning of life.

If I decided to be active, you would stay with me during those days my mind went insane and I concluded P90X was what I needed in order to get my life back on track. You’d watch me struggle pathetically and curse repeatedly at the TV as if it could do anything about my lack of coordination. Those were the days. We made each other so happy.

Remember the times I wore you day and night, without a single minute of separation? Not even when I was doing laundry. We became one in our laziness and lack of hygiene.

Now I need to shower every day, put on makeup every…day. I know I am a girl and I should be overwhelmed with glee at the thought of primping frequently. But there are days I just want my paleness and blemishes to be free of foundation and bronzer. You would never judge me for it. At work however, they would tell me I look “sick” or tired if I don’t have makeup on. Cheeky bastards.

I am caught in first-real-job-hell, Boxers, and all its clichés. Eight and a half hours of work, one strictly timed lunch hour, boring oh so boring dated office, minion duties and an array of very colorful semi lunatic personalities.

This is no life! No one prepared me for this. I often look for a corner where I can assume the fetal position and rock gently for at least a few minutes so I can self soothe. But all I’ll achieve is spreading of rumors about my possible alcoholism or bipolar disorder –which I don’t have.

I guess what I’m trying to get to, dearest, is that I want you back. You would never notice if I didn’t flat iron my hair or if my teeth would go by unbrushed until noon –we know this happened on several occasions. You wouldn’t judge me if I sang to Lady Gaga from the top of my lungs while attempting to follow each step of the dance choreography. I need this kind of acceptance back in my life.

Even when I was mean to you and I covered you in flour and chocolate sauce with my cooking experiments, you wouldn’t complain. Or the times I cried excessively and wiped snot and tears on you because I felt I would die alone without a job or without achieving my dreams. You were supportive and docile during my hysterics.  

Please take me back Boxer Shorts! I miss our life together and I promise you this time around, I will not take it for granted. This nine to five grown up world is so overrated. I need freedom from external unreasonable pressures that don’t amount to any particular wisdom or gain of work experience. 

Please forgive my ignorance when I tossed you aside and blamed you for all my problems. I will never do this again. Please think about it.

Lots of desperation,

M.

Breaking the Curse

It’s not news that the Universe always has a way of making you look like a fool the moment you make a decision or form an opinion out loud, or in my case, in a blog. Some call it Karma. Some call it signs or fate. We all come up with explanations for it but it all fundamentally means that the minute you speak up, the Universe will decide to stick a symbolic yet gigantic foot in your mouth.

It can happen in many ways. For example, you say, “I never want to get married.” In the next week, you’ll meet someone that makes you feel tingly and warm just like every semi comedic, falsely romantic movie tells you you’re supposed to feel.

Another scenario is when you and that tingle worthy person decide to go “steady”. You are so sure of your decision and happy to be part of a couple. That is when all the hot guys that weren’t around when you were single decide not only that they are available but that they want to go out with you. Gigantic foot, I tell ya.

In my case, it was the recent rambling about being unemployed and how it was all an evil plot from all corporations in order to make me feel inadequate. I had sworn off employment and with that came a sweet freedom accompanied by comfy sweatpants and sleeping in until eleven in the morning.

Twenty four hours hadn’t passed since the posting of the The Curse of the Graduate when I got the call. You know, that call that you had given up on saying you got the job. I got it. For the next few hours, I behaved dimwitted and slightly retarded; probably the same way a lot of people behaved after watching Inception.

I couldn’t make sense of the whole situation. It had been months, half a year to be exact. Was this some kind of joke? Wasn’t there some sort of expiration date for these kinds of things, say a month or two? Surely they weren’t being serious.

But as it turns out, they don’t do kidding. They were for real. I am no longer unemployed. I am officially a functional contributive individual in this society. As of tomorrow at 8am.

So if you want to get a job already and are pissed with people leaving you waiting around like you are Nelson Mandela –he waited a long time in case you didn’t know- you must taunt the Universe. Write a blog about how much looking for a job sucks. Go right up to your future boss, point him dramatically and call bullshit! Tell him your time is precious and you are sick and tired of playing games. Whine incessantly to your friends until they ignore your phone calls.  Be creative in sending your message out there. The crazier the better. Before you know it, the curse will be broken and you will be a coffee drinking, morning loving working woman -or man-.

I will miss my sweatpants though. I don’t think I remember how to match clothes anymore.