There’s a certain degree of uncertainty that comes with unemployment. (More accurately, there’s a degree of uncertainty that accompanies life in general. It’s simply more acute for the unemployed.) My days stretch out like a blank canvas—I’m not sure I have anything on my calendar between now and May 28. I’m waiting for someone—the unemployed’s job equivalent of “Mr. Right”—to come along and fill my days. But patiently waiting for my career to begin is, in some ways, every bit as frightening as dating.
I’ve got my eye on a specific position, and I’m more confident that we’re compatible than I’ve ever been about any man. The title is alluring, the salary is good, but more importantly, the work is just right. I know that I would be an asset to the company, but that I would grow professionally (and perhaps even personally and spiritually!) as well.
Though I fit better with this job opening than any man I’ve dated, just like with men, there are some scary bits. The possibility of flying across the country (or at least halfway!) is tantalizing. The fact that a job offer and my acceptance would pull me to that far away land semi-permanently is a bit like a daydream. It seems a fantastic idea, but also crazier than my most hare-brained schemes. After all, to date those plans have pulled me out of the south for no more than two months at a time.
My family, most of my friends and at least a portion of my identity are wrapped up in this land of oaks and magnolias, of fried catfish and sweet tea. Leaving them behind is hard to imagine.
But when it’s right, you know. And I suppose you do whatever it takes—be it move mountains or move to the mountains—to make it work. Rejection is very much a risk. “Mr. Right Job” could find another woman higher on his ladder. That’s part of the adventure of unemployment, and just like dating, that’s the risk I face.
But unlike dating, “Mr. Right Job” has a deadline. Bring it on—I’m ready for the results.