Girl on the Brink: Surviving Desperate Times with Desperate Measures

Speaking of love, as I love to do, brings me to another trick of the trade in finding a job. While the two are as unrelated as bread and chocolate, they still go together. I have surges during the day where I fervently re-visit job boards and apply for freelance work, checking my email every 20 minutes to see if somebody’s noticed my resume. I dream of returning to a routine, of not living paycheck by paycheck. I know how good that can make you feel.

I mitigate the lulls by going to the gym and finding ways to feel wanted. I’ve held on to my gym membership because exercising improves my mental health. In this economy, when finding a job will probably take an extra long time (read: six months or more), a healthy brain is paramount to your survival, and it gives me hope that I’ll also find someone to date. So many of the guys at my gym have great bodies—tight butts, broad shoulders and narrow waists. Unfortunately, they’re all looking for other guys with tight butts, broad shoulders and narrow waists. (Okay, I stole that line from Jay Leno, but it’s true.)

But I still continue to go. I’ve read that exercising increases endorphins in the brain. Endorphins are feel-good chemicals, sort of a like a natural opiate. I used to take drugs in college (just the mild stuff like pot), but dare not try anything while I’m job hunting. Can you imagine? I get a job offer and then have to take a drug test. Increasingly, companies require drug screenings for prospective employees. I know the humiliation of peeing in a cup to get a job. I passed then and don’t want to ever fail that particular test, especially not now.

I’ve applied for a government job, and if I get it I’ll need to take a drug test, so no poppy-seed bagels for me. The straight dope on that is that you can never be sure whether the poppy seeds covering your bagel come from the same poppy plants used in the production of heroin. When you’re unemployed, you can’t take that chance.

I confess, I also signed up for an account on Millionairematch.com. The longer you’re unemployed the more you acquire a Cinderella-feeling about wanting to feel rich when you live below the poverty level. In the back of my mind, I want to be rescued by a handsome prince. Second confession: I check my account several times a day to see if anyone has viewed my profile or sent email. There’s always a rush to check out a new admirer who’s found your profile, but he (and sometimes it’s a she) often looks as poor as you. The realization is that Millionairematch is more marketing than millionaires.