Mitigating My Damages

At the end of the movie Pretty Woman, prostitute Vivian (as portrayed by a youthful Julia Roberts) cleans up and is whisked away by Richard Gere where she will presumably marry or cohabit with him, but at the very least will no longer have to 'turn tricks' to earn her bread. Her roommate and fellow 'lady of the evening' inspired by her former 'co-worker' exhorts her new 'roommate' fellow 'lady of the evening' that she will have to charge her an increased rent owing to the fact that she too doesn't want to 'turn tricks' forever and may take night school classes, etc, because as she giddily states, "Ya gotta have a plan!" , "Do ya have a plan?" she exhorts her new minion.

Do you have a plan? Indeed.

I, in fact had (have) a plan. It's very simple. The plan has ALWAYS been to GET. A. JOB.
I've gone through all the usual suspects, Craigslist, Careerbuilder, Monster, HotJobs..Cold Jobs, Good Jobs, Indifferent Jobs, Mediocre Jobs...ok...you get the idea...
My resume has passed through more hands than a NY Subway token. Placement Agencies, Temporary Agents, Staffing Agents, (Casting Agents?). 

Since my plan hasn't been completely realized, contingencies WERE necessary, somewhat humiliating and degrading, but still necessary! Especially given the fact that I liked to eat and the bills WILL keep coming in spite of the fact that employment has not. So of course, I tapped on the great State of Florida's shoulder and said, "I'd like to have some of those tax dollars back that I and my former employer(s) paid into your unemployment coffers".  And at first the State of Florida obligingly complied.

To my great surprise though, I found some weeks later that a former employer quite vociferously objected to my request for her portion of those aforementioned dollars and had viscously petitioned every department of the Florida State unemployment office up to and including Governor Scott himself to prevent me from doing so.

Her reasoning was that I wasn't mitigating my damages, simply put that I hadn't made the necessary effort to find a job. As she saw it, all these months, I've been sitting around in a feathered peignoir and slippers watching the soaps while gorging myself on bon-bons.

After I cried and screamed, then cried and screamed a little more, I did what any reactionary type A personality would do. First I burned with indignation, recalling every menial task I'd ever performed for her up to and including making her lunch, dropping off postage and buying stamps for which I was never reimbursed nor for the mileage it took for me to go and purchase them, petitioning members of my family to provide her with advertising products at cost for which they and the company never received one penny in profit, taking a part-time position at a substantially lower wage while she replaced me with someone else in order to avoid being altogether unemployed. The temporary assignment I took which paid me 50% less in wages than a similar position I'd held 4 years earlier, because I was so desperate NOT to be unemployed, to NOT have to take unemployment compensation.

Then I overdosed on job-hunting. It hasn't been uncommon for me to be scouring Craigslist or Careerbuilder at midnight on a Saturday double-checking, being sure that there wasn't something I'd missed earlier in the week. Then being panicked at finding something, only to find as I checked my list of sent resumes that I'd already contacted them.

 All of the interviews, kowtowing to every hiring manager, every receptionist, every single person who might have had the ability to make or break me.  Hearing so often the phrases I dread, "Well, we have a few more people to see this week." Or... "We are going to email you a personality evaluation and then we'll see where we are."  "We'll be in touch soon..."  And responding to my query, "Will I hear from you either way?"   "Oh sure, we'll definitely be in touch!" All of the ways people handle you, all of the ways they tell you without ever saying it, without ever giving you the chance to prove them wrong, that you are too old, too young, too ugly, too pretty, too thin, too fat, too blond, too not-blond, too not asian, too not hispanic, not spanish-speaking, too qualified, too underqualified for them to bother with being polite to or treating you like a human being.

And you go home and beg the phone to ring. Praying that they'll give you the chance to prove them wrong.

Trying so damn hard to mitigate my damages. To prove that I am not a bum, a burden on society, shiftless, lazy, good for nothing...not a failure.

Fast foward a few months and then, the other week,  Interview #...oh forget it, a guy, the owner in fact, shows up to interview me...in shorts. I try to overlook the fact that I am perspiring, SWEATING in hosiery, having sat up the night before swathed in blue clay to be sure my skin was supple, bleaching my teeth white using a device that is reminiscent of the mouthguard Rocky Balboa used while sparring with Apollo Creed, (come to think of it, it kind of makes me sound a bit like Rocky too..'Yo Adrian!'), the hours I spent that night researching interview questions, trying to be prepared for any eventuality.

But nothing could have prepared me for the question he posed 15 minutes into the interview when he says, "So unemployed for how many months...how come you haven't had any offers?" 

I blink hard to stop the rush of emotion, my throat raw with the sob that is never far from the surface. For a split second, I want to punch him square on the jaw. I want to break the windows. I want to scream, "Why indeed, your guess is as good as mine, you inconsiderate jerk?"

I think, 'I can't believe I have to answer the question of a man who five minutes ago stopped me mid-sentence to take a cell phone call from his wife about some matter relating to home improvement, and whose trousers are hanging on the door of his office, who IS WEARING SHORTS!'

I answer, of course, I answer. I know that I have as much chance of getting this job as my cat Jamie ever has of catching that moth on the other side of the sliding glass door.

But I answer...above all...my dignity doesn't matter, my pride doesn't even factor in, I have to mitigate my damages.