THE LAW FIRM

A couple of hours after my college graduation, my parents dropped me off at a job interview downtown Chicago, just a few miles south of my alma mater. I was interviewing for an administrative assistant position at a law firm armed with nothing more than a brand new degree in theatre and a “I’ve got my whole life ahead of me” attitude. My plan was to work in an office for a steady paycheck and benefits (my health insurance ended promptly upon my completion of college). In the evenings, I would pursue my true calling of being an actor. I got the job.

The first, and most important thing, I learned while working at the law firm was how to look busy when I actually had nothing to do. Trying to be a good employee, I would quickly finish all of my work for the day in the first couple of hours. I needed to slow it down. This shit was boring enough as it was without having another six hours to surf the internet. After I got caught too many times doing crossword puzzles in my tiny office, I came up with another way to keep busy. I took to taking walks around the two floors of the Firm to kill time but people started looking at me like I wasn’t doing my job. Or, maybe they were more confused as to why I was doing my job so fast. “What a rookie,” they must have thought.

Quickly, I realized that if I just walked around the office with a legal pad and a pen, no one bothered me. “Don’t mind me! Busy working!” I would say as I headed down to IT to sneak whiskey from a flask with one of the guys.

I would only recommend working at a law firm in your early twenties if you thought that your college frat parties were really awesome. I know a few people who loved getting shit faced with a bunch of dudes in blue button downs and backwards baseball caps. What fun it is to wake up with that “was I kind of raped?” feeling. Those friends all work at law firms now.

I boarded the elevator with two attorneys who pretended to take no notice of me. The younger one, Brett, was finishing his conversation with his newly divorced associate. “I mean, what the fuck? It’s not like I was going to rape her or anything, so you know.” Totally Brett, totally. Girls who loved frat parties, this is your guy.

My boss, Mary Anne, wore clumpy mascara and business attire that was going out of style in 1983, the year I was born. She was a self-involved woman who owned a brownstone in Lincoln Park with her husband and child. And by child I mean her dog. She once asked me if I was alcoholic because I was a half hour late to work. I mean sure, I had been out drinking the night before with my roommate because I hated my stupid office job, but I wasn’t an alcoholic. But I didn’t tell that to Mary Anne. Obviously, the train was running late. I hoped that I had made her feel bad for jumping to conclusions but I’m sure she had seen this type of behavior before. She already saw it in my eyes: the pain, the regret, the sadness that was coming over me for deciding to take a low paying office job instead of landing roles at The Goodman Theatre.

Mary Anne also often told people that I was a “computer major”. Every time that I reminded her that I had, in fact, been a proud theatre major studying acting, lighting design, and playwriting she commented, “Really… I don’t think I knew that about you.” She had been the one to interview and hire me.

Maybe it was because of my “computer major” or maybe it was because I was the youngest person at the Firm, but my boss decided that I would be in charge of the Firm’s website. Sure, I didn’t remember learning html coding in theatre school, but I could figure it out. All twenty-two year olds totally get computers. Once I did figure out how to update the Firm’s website with articles about clients and mergers, I decided it was super boring. I thought that a better job for me was to take over the Firm newsletter, which I quickly turned into a cross between community newsletter and jokes I would have written for my college sketch troupe. It was confirmed to me that office folk were quite dry because only a handful of people noticed the flat out sarcasm and mockery that had been introduced to my version of the Firm newsletter. These people were limited to the employees of the mailroom and IT.

I exploited my new role as Firm Newspaper Editor as if to make up for my crappy job as reporter on my high school newspaper. As the editor of the Firm newsletter, I saw it necessary to take pictures of and document everything in and out of the office that I deemed worthy of publication. I once made a group of employees go fishing in the Chicago River for the Firm newsletter. My mailroom friends liked the outing because they got to get out of work for a few hours and I liked it because it was pointless and I had labeled it “Firm related”.

Later in the year, my boss’s dog became ill. She took off days at a time to see to the dog’s care. I completely understand that your pets often become your family. I wrote her a card and expressed my sympathy. When the dog finally died, she took off a week of work to recover.

Very soon after Mary Anne’s dog died, I got a call that one of my best friends, Jay, had died of a gallbladder infection that turned septic. This was very soon after Hurricane Katrina and my friend had been back in New Orleans helping his family relocate after their home had been destroyed. I was devastated. We had just graduated college and Jay had a bright future ahead of him. Already acting professionally in Chicago, he had agents waiting to sign him when he returned from New Orleans.

I called my boss to tell her that I needed the day off. “Oh,” she said unemotionally. “Well, you just had some time off.” She was correct about the time off, I had just had the flu and could not come into work. This felt very cold. I ended up writing her an email explaining that I would be traveling to New Orleans for Jay’s funeral and if this ended in my termination, so be it.

This really felt like the beginning of the end for me. How could I work for a place that took my friend’s death with so little value, not to mention my own feelings and well being. Perhaps this was how the post college world worked. Either way, I didn’t like it and I didn’t like this job with its mundane tasks, asshole attorneys, and jealous secretaries. I was still bartending on the weekends anyways to make enough to pay my rent. So, maybe even though that I was now a college graduate I might be better off bartending full time. Bartending was fun, I made more money, and I felt better about myself as a person.

I handed in my resignation with little surprise from my boss. I had given it a full year and decided that this was not for me. Mary Anne couldn’t believe that I would rather bartend than work a nine to five at law firm. How embarrassing for me to be a bartender with a college degree!

During my last week at the firm, I moved away from my roommates and into my own one bedroom apartment in a new neighborhood. A few days after that, I got a bartending gig at a fine dining restaurant. This job ended up being the best job I have had to date. And a week after that, right when my health insurance ran out, I got hit by a car while riding my bike and had to go to the emergency room. That day was also my birthday. I guess the universe can’t make things too good for one person.

In the fall, I was at my favorite dive bar with some friends when I noticed a few assholes in suits. “What are these guys doing here?” I said to my friends. We weren’t used to seeing guys like that in our bar. After closer inspection, I recognized them as attorneys from my old firm. Obviously, I had to say something.

“I used to update your attorney bios for the Firm website,” I said to one of them, glass of whiskey in one hand.

“Oh! Right! I knew you looked familiar,” one of the dickfaces said.

The other looked me up and down. “How could I forget those blue eyes—and those lips?” Brett the ‘I wasn’t gonna rape her’ attorney said as he put his hands on my butt and gave it a squeeze.

“Gross,” I said and made my way to the bar for another whiskey. “Gross.”

Stages of My Unemployment

The tears. The constant rejection. The self-pity.

All of the self destructive behavior that goes along with it.

The “Why the hell am I $80,000 in debt to Citibank Student Loans!?”

That’s right, I am looking for a job. I have just moved to New York from Chicago hoping to change my life for the better. Before I moved, I had big dreams of finding that perfect job that was going to make me feel completely fulfilled. This job was going to make me realize that college really did pay off! I am special because I have a degree and now, in New York, everyone wants to hire me!

In the beginning, I was completely confident that I would find a job right away. I saw myself as bright, talented, and experienced and soon to be weeding through piles of job offers. In retrospect, I should have left this cocky attitude in Chicago. In retrospect, I should have reminded myself about the four million unemployed people in this country. In retrospect, I am not bright, talented, or experienced.

Because of my foolish idealism, I did not conserve money my first few weeks in New York. I even enjoyed being unemployed, going as far as making jokes about my “temporary” situation. Unemployment was terrific at first. During the day, I looked for work by perusing all of the usual websites and then when evening approached, rewarded myself for my perseverance by going out to dinner which was of course, followed by drinks.

Week one passed fine enough. I easily convinced myself, “It’s only been a week! I’ll find something!” I still enjoyed being unemployed. New York was a new city and I liked having the time to explore it.

Soon, that week turned into two and then three and then four. The dollar amount in my bank account was dropping dangerously low. I was finding that the emotions I was beginning to go through as a result of my inability to find unemployment were not so far off from what Elisabeth Kubler-Ross calls the “Five Stages of Grief”.

Denial.

My stage of denial was short lived. It occurred mostly in weeks one and two of unemployment. “I have a college degree! I have so much experience!” And let’s not forget this gem, “The person who handles the hiring probably just hasn’t checked her email yet! It’s fine!” It only took one look at my bank account statement on a humid Friday to get me out of my denial stage: $61.38.

Anger.

I would rage. I was angry that no one would hire me and I was furious that I had been tricked into attending an expensive, private, four-year university. “School’s for fools” would be my motto from now on. No one had called me about a perspective job. Not one employer was even slightly interested in just interviewing me. I couldn’t believe it! I had truly convinced myself that I was marketable and the let down was unbearable! I threw things against walls and slammed doors. I yelled at my cat. Who was to blame that I could not find a job? I was thousands of miles away from Chicago in this new city with barely any money and no prospects. Was this a mistake? Should I have stayed in Chicago? I was too angry to really engage in any critical thinking about my recent life changing decisions. In a fit of anger, I grabbed the last ten dollars to my name and stomped to the corner store and bought a six-pack of beer. What else could I do?

Bargaining.

Anger had passed, although I now lived by my new “school’s for fools” motto. I wanted to laugh at kids as I saw them make their way to the local technical high school in my neighborhood. “That’s not going to get you anywhere!” I wanted to scream. But then I thought about it and decided that maybe their schooling might lead them to some success. After all, they were not spending $20,000 a year on theatre school like I had done and continue to do.

I spent my bargaining days trying to make deals with the universe. “Let me find twenty dollars somewhere and I promise to volunteer somewhere, World.”

“If I can get just one interview, I know I can land the job! World, I promise to really yell at people who litter if you let this happen! I won’t just think about yelling at them like I already do, but I’ll really let them have it.”

And I hate to admit this, but my darkest days of bargaining came when I actually said this:

“Now, I know that I have disowned religion and have denied the existence of god for some time, but maybe, just maybe, if I am somehow wrong, Jesus or the Holy Spirit or one of the thousands of saints can hook me up with a sweet job here in New York. What do you think?”

I did not get an answer. And really, what was I thinking when I reached out to this mystical Christian god and his army of angels and saints and magic? I was done bargaining. I was embarrassed by my actions and needed something more worthwhile to focus on.

Depression.

Depression fit me like a glove and it felt great. To wallow in my own self pity, to look at my student loan statements in remorse, to remember my youthful optimism of a few weeks back made me feel like I was really doing something about my unemployment. Here I was, a twenty-five year old New York transplant who’s hopes and dreams had been crushed by countless faceless employers who did not think twice about deleting my resume and charming cover letter from their inboxes. Feel bad for me! I did!

I tried calling my mom to get some pity out of her to aid in my own depression. “But mom, haven’t I worked so hard! Don’t I deserve health insurance! Aren’t I smart and everything an employer would want?”

My mother was not dishing out the pity as I had hoped. “Well, I don’t have any money to give you. You can always move in with me.”

I did not receive the pity I was searching for, but the idea of having to move back to Chicago and in with my parents was enough to really get my depression going. The tears flowed easily. I even cried just looking at job postings thinking, “Why bother! I am just going to be rejected again!”

Finally, even I got sick of my constant despair and whining. It was time to come to terms with my unemployment.

Acceptance.

Here I am, twenty-five years old, in a new city, with only a handful of friends. It is going to be okay. Perhaps it is time to lower my standards and start applying for jobs I would normally have passed over. There are no more excuses. Yes, I spent a lot of money on college and have worked a lot of hours at many different jobs, but that does not mean I am the most qualified candidate for every position I apply for. I can get through this.

Paying for It

By the second week of November, the neon blue Christmas tree was lit and decorated for the upcoming holidays. Maybe it was blue to include the Jews, or maybe it was blue just because the color was rad, or maybe it was blue to remind the Jews that they weren't allowed to have Christmas trees. The soft white lights coming from the tree gave a little extra glint to the paper American flags that were taped securely to the desk and the walls. It was going to be a real American Christmas, just the way Bill O'Reilly had intended it to be.

Behind the desk and the iconic tree, images of cops and gang violence were spray painted onto the walls graffiti style. It was to remind us that life on the streets is tough, bitch.

Every time I walk through the door, I am forced to stare at images and newspaper clippings reminding me to "REMEMBER" 9/11. All of the clippings are slightly racist in nature, but this is expected from a place that puts up their Christmas tree two weeks before Thanksgiving.

To be allowed to enter this fine establishment, I pay $27 a month. I go to this place, wear little shorts and old t-shirts, and run for miles on a treadmill that makes loud clicking sounds every time my right foot hits the belt. I am sure that one day it is going to start on fire, but I am slightly obsessed with weight loss and therefore take my chances every day. I think to myself, "Well, I may be burnt alive but at least I'll be thin and have great muscle definition!"

Located on a strip of Lincoln Avenue that is better known for its carpet and tile stores than its work out facilities, my gym is hidden between a Kabala Center and a mystery store that probably sells drugs. And at only $27 a month, I get what I pay for.

There is no towel service. No high tech machines. At least six of the treadmills are always broken. The indoor track that the gym brags about slopes upward and then downward at awkward intervals. The gym advertises their many classes by tacking up a sheet of paper to the water fountain and bathroom stalls, much like a high school student would do when running for treasurer of Student Council.

I have never taken a spinning class, yoga class, or even women on weights because I am really intimidated by the instructor. She is some Eastern European women with bright blonde hair and large boobs. She has a weird face and a belly that she can get away with because of her chest size. This angers me about her. I hated her the moment I saw her. I vowed never to accept an offer for free personal training. As much as I hate her, I am kind of obsessed with her, in a way. I constantly wonder if she is considered attractive by conventional standards and if her accent is a turn on to men. Every time she is near me, I pause my headphones so I can get a better grasp of her accent. She's a whisperer, so I can never tell. One day, I hope to challenge her to a race and finish the competition off with a battle of wits.

Unlike most gyms, though, my gym doesn't usually make me feel overly bad about the way I look. Actually, it's quite the opposite. I often walk in and realize that I may be the most attractive girl who has passed under the American flag guarded entrance all day. Last night, while working on my legs, I noticed a boy doing sit ups feverishly. He was actually attractive. I wondered where he came from and why he wasn't at Crunch or Bally's where all the beautiful people work out. What kind of place did he think this was? I wanted to stand over him and yell, "Hey! What do you think you're doing? You take those abs and those pretty eyes elsewhere, because I want to become the most attractive person at this gym and you're ruining it!"

The attractive boy was making me self conscious and I wondered if the pit stains on my beer t-shirt would make me look hard core or just dirty. I stared at him a little longer, squeezed my pony tail and let the sweat drip to the floor, and walked away, leaving the little puddle of sweat just for him.

There was a time awhile back where I enjoyed the elliptical. I would run, but maybe only twice a week. The elliptical felt like skiing on air, which I liked to pretend I was really doing. Also, it is possible to read a book or a magazine while exercising on the elliptical. On a treadmill, things just get messy. It was because I was doing the elliptical that I met Angel. It was because of Angel that I will never do the elliptical again. After working hard on the elliptical and feeling good about myself, I walked over to do some weights. It was there that I was approached. No one has ever approached me at the gym before. He started talking to me and I couldn't hear him because of my headphones. I removed one headphone from my ear as if to say, "I'm listening, but only briefly because I'm still half listening to my workout music".

"I've been watching you on the elliptical," Angel says. He's been watching me? For how long? This wasn't the first time I'd seen him at the gym. He was hard to miss. Angel has thick, long dreads that go all the way down his back. Sometimes, he likes to make a show about pulling them back and securing them with a brightly colored scrunchy.

He spoke with the same accent that the large-chested personal trainer spoke with, an accent that I have come to call "generic foreign accent". Hey, my gym is clearly no place to be politically correct.

The man in not-hot dreads continued to speak with me, looking me up and down. "You work pretty hard on the elliptical, but the elliptical isn't for people who need to lose weight. It's for people who just want to stay fit."

Was he calling me fat? He grabbed my hand and said, "Hey, I'm Angel." So now he was "Angel", the man who called me fat.

"Your legs…" I looked down at my legs. People always complimented my legs. They are lean and tough. "…They look pretty good." Phew. So according to Angel, my legs looked good. "But your middle…" Oh God. Please don't. I have always been very sensitive about my belly that won't seem to disappear, try as I might. Angel went on, "You could afford to lose a few pounds in your middle."

He had called me fat. In my mind, Angel had basically just told me that I was about the most unattractive girl he had ever seen and it was no wonder I couldn't hold onto any boy, because no one wants to date the fat girl. My self-esteem is sensitive. And low. My brain turned his comments into as horrible as I could make them.

Angel went on to give me some free "advice" on products I should purchase from the GNC. For the next few weeks at the gym, I adamantly avoided Angel every time I saw him. He tried to say hello and make conversation, but I would have none of it. Now when I see Angel, I glare it him from my treadmill and hope that he breaks his ankle so that he won't be able to work out anymore and get really fat. Since the berating by Angel, I have never once even thought about going back on the elliptical. It's been the treadmill, six days a week.

I continue to go to this gym and pay money to be sweated on, and called fat, and be a part of someone's political agenda that I never wanted anything to do with. I do this because, well, it's cheap, and so close to my apartment. It does have heavy things I can lift repeatedly to tone up my arms and treadmills that tell me how many calories I have burned before I may or may not start on fire. So I hope that if I just keep my headphones on and keep trekking along on the wobbly treadmills, one day I will only be so lucky as to have Angel come up to me and tell me that I'm beautiful.

Assaulted for Underwear

Victoria's "Secret" is that she is a lesbian who likes to wear men's carpenter pants, a wife beater under a blue and white flannel shirt, and work boots. Victoria likes to think that in another world, she's a lumberjack. Victoria believes that a woman's body is beautiful, but she feels more manly than feminine. Victoria is okay with this. She accepts it and loves herself for it. In fact, Victoria has very high self esteem and a fantastic self image that other women would die for. And so Victoria designs beautiful, lacey, sometimes complex pieces of lingerie and panties for her girlfriend, Jasmine. Jasmine is a dancer and always hoped to make it big. She has stunning dark features and a large chest. Victoria and Jasmine immediately fell in love, and like most lesbian couples, they moved in together exactly two months after they began dating.

Their relationship is going well and everyone is comfortable with it. Often at big Victoria's Secret meetings, Victoria will have Jasmine model the new pieces of lingerie she has designed in front of the boardroom for the top stock holders to see. The stock holders feel very much a part of the "process" at Victoria's Secret Corporation.

In fact, everyone who works at Victoria's Secret feels very comfortable with the womanly figure. This is mostly due to Victoria and Jasmine's relationship. They have created with they call in the business world a "safe zone", where people are safe to explore and develop their feelings and work through insecurities.

People like me are highly, extremely, overly uncomfortable with the "safe zone" which has far outreached the private board rooms and offices of the Victoria's Secret corporation. Their safe zone is apparent in their pink smelly stores.

Upon walking into a Victoria's Secret store, it is evident that a large pink marshmallow had vomited everywhere, leaving the hot pink contents of its stomach to ooze down the walls. One also sees that the staff of the lingerie empire has just come out of the break room where they appeared to have showered in old lady perfume and been snorting pixie sticks.

My problem with this establishment is not the intensity of the sales staff or even the careless use of gallons of pink paint. I will admit that I am slightly taken aback by all of the cleavage on the sales staff, but that probably has more to do with my feeling that I am more likely to be hired as a representative in the pre-teen bra section of a department store than as an ambassador in the big-breasted grown up woman's lingerie store.

My discomfort with Victoria's Secret stores mostly has to do with the nipple graze. Yes, the nipple graze. More than once, I have been casually felt up by a staff member of Victoria's Secret. I didn't enter the store looking for a good time, but that's exactly what they tried to give me.

Entering the store, a cheery, busty woman always approaches me and asks if I am looking for "panties or a bra!". Then, she will point out some of her favorite bras and the new "panties" they just got in. I, for one, prefer to call them "underpants" rather than "panties". "Underpants" takes longer to say and gets a completely different reaction than if one were to say "panties". It makes the sales people a little uncomfortable because "underpants" sounds anything but sexy. Then, before I know it, the tape measure is out and the lady has her arms wrapped around me and my arms are hovering over my head. I want to say, "Stop! You are violating my personal space!", but the words just don't come out. Next, a bunch of bras are thrown at me and I am forced into a fitting room where I have a moment alone to gather my thoughts. But it's always just a moment because soon there is knocking at the door. "Did you put on the very sexy busty and separating extra cleavage bra? Let me see it!"

Two things always happen at this point. First, the lady makes me nervous and I somehow get stuck in the bra. Secondly, I fear and dread the point that I have to come out the fitting room shirtless. Yet, I don't ever say no. I do exactly what they tell me to do because they have jugs and I, well, don't. Maybe subconsciously I think that if they notice the lack of cleavage coming from my bra, they will give me some of their cleavage.

The knocking at the door continues and I am forced to come out of the dressing room, shirtless. I always try to stay in the room and just open the door, but the fitting room attendant pulls me out by the arm and shoves me in front of a big mirror where I am forced to stare at my inadequacies with a woman whom I do not know. This is usually where the nipple graze comes in. And yes, this has happened more than once. The lady stares for a long time at my breasts in the bra and then shakes her head. "Hmmmm…" she says. "Girl, you barely fill out that cup!" Then, she'll reach into the bra, grab a boob in each hand, and yank it up in an effort to fill out the bra. You can't help but graze the nipple when your hands are fishing around in someone else's bra.

After trying on what seems like hundreds of bras and having the attendant try to mold my breasts into a shape more conducive for filling out a Victoria's Secret push-up bra after each fitting, the whole event becomes a little blasé. I get used to the lady's hands all over my breasts and even begin to get bored with it instead of tense and nervous. Her comments about my anything-but- large-breasts are still just as biting, but I learn to accept it. "At least I need a bra," I think. "It's not like I could go without one, so how bad can they be?"

Eventually, I find a bra that fits and usually purchase the matching underpants. But really, what does it matter if I have a hot matching bra and panty set when I clearly get more action inside the underwear store than at home?

Despite my ever growing stack of insecurities with my body, I continue to go back to Victoria's Secret and pay an exorbitant amount of money for a good bra and a feel-up. And even though I feel like I do not belong at Victoria's Secret, I still hope that one day I can join the club.