The Joy of the Job Search

If you can’t tell I’m in the middle of a fruitless, tedious, pathetic job search, that’s because I never talk about it. It’s so boring, and so lame, and so unbelievable in its hideous results (none) even I know not to bring it up to other people. What would be the point really? I would just be confessing a) how many times I’ve been rejected and b) how nobody around here thinks I’m smart enough to teach their kids. “Hey, I finished my Master’s degree six months ago, and I haven’t been able to get a job, even though the greater Boston area has over 200 private schools and countless public ones, and despite the fact that there is a major teacher deficit in America. What’s new with you?” Pathetic.

I mean, maybe it’s my fault. Possibly. But really it’s definitely not my fault at all. I have literally e-mailed every school or school district within 30 miles of here, regardless of their current or expected job openings. I write a mean cover letter, let me tell you. I have talked to friends, relatives, friends’ relatives, and pretty much every coworker I have (hint, hint: give me more to do around here and I’ll stay!) The thing that really kills me is, as everyone knows, I’m a great catch. No really! I’m like a triple threat celebrity who can dance, sing, and act—think Beyonce, minus the acting, and Britney, minus the singing. And acting I guess. Only I have more skills and I can actually do a good job on them. I teach, I coach, I babysit the dorms, I tutor, I proctor SATs, I cover the front desk phones, I decorate the dances, I drive vans—I do it all. So why won’t anyone hire me? It’s certainly not my ego, is it?

This marathon training thing has been a nice distraction from the abysmal annoyance of job-hunting, but since I’m injured I can’t even rely on that to take up an hour or two of my day. I suppose I’ve been stretching and icing more than usual, but I can do that while watching tv or reading a book, so it doesn’t exactly feel like I am challenging myself intellectually and getting anything out of the $36,879 advanced degree diploma I have in my care. I have to find a job. I can’t live in this stinky, squeaky old house full of high school boys again if I don’t find at least four hours more of work a day. And no, sorting files and opening envelopes does not count as work for me. I can only sit on my ass for so long before I get restless leg syndrome and start to wig out. I can only plan lacrosse practice for so long before I make it into a novel that will last an entire school day to complete and I begin obsessing over game plans and offensive plays that continue to follow me into my dreams. I can only take the dog on so many walks, cook so many meals, do so many crossword puzzles, and watch so much E! television before I go crazy and start begging anyone and everyone on the street for work.

Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that. As I have mentioned, I would not be a good panhandler.