Funemployed

Why don’t the ones you want ever want you? This is not a rumination on men, though it could be and often is. This is a statement about my internship hunt.

It has taken a lot for me to share this struggle with y’all. More than anything I want people to perceive me as successful, so to go back on all those ideals and admit that I may be unemployed this summer is so not me. However, so rarely are we alone in our struggles. I hope this rings true to someone else, too.

I have been fishing for internships since September, when my friend Ferons alerted me that I should maybe start doing that. Previously, I had thought of unemployment as a theoretical issue, someone else’s problem. I was 12 when the housing market collapsed in 2008. I didn’t dream that we would still be dealing with the aftermath 8 years later, when I was finally seeking a big girl job.

To clarify, I am not unemployed in the sense that most people are unemployed. I will still have a place to stay and food to eat and *~* healthcare,*~* which is good because I am always sick. I am not at any risk of actual danger. I am just frustrated.

I have received a lot of rejection emails, and most of them were so positive that I was a little bit unsure if I was being rejected or proposed to, a la Chris and Ann Perkins from Parks and Rec. I’m not entirely sure the interviews I went on weren’t just a misinterpretation of an especially nice rejection email. A key component of a rejection email, I have learned, is the word unfortunately. Unfortunately, we have filled this position. Unfortunately, you do not meet our needs at this time. Unfortunately, we are not even hiring, we don’t know how you got this number, please cease and desist.

I could work at the pool, as I have in summers past, but last summer a man told me he wanted to put my feet next to his face all day. Later, I realized I only got paid 12 cents for that interaction– and that is a generous estimate– and that kind of killed the entire proposition for me.

Hopefully, this is not a period of unemployment, but rather underemployment, or perhaps, ideally, funderemployment,a term I have just coined for working a menial job but also pursuing interests that would have been neglected had I accepted an internship in my field. I’m hoping to keep practicing pilates, teach Smudge the cat to walk on a leash, read a book every day and grow tomatoes.

My aunt Kris once tried to grow vegetables in her garden. She said she had this idea of a kumbaya moment with her children in the garden, but she ended up dirty with a crying baby and a little weiner dog on the loose. I am fairly certain at one point this summer I will be dirty and sweaty (because it is regularly 102 with 75% humidity in Kansas in July and that’s why home prices are so cheap) and I will whisper fuck you, little tomatoes because I am naturally impatient and not a good gardener. At least I recognize that possibility.

I will have to work the rest of my life and I probably won’t have the time to get mad at my tomatoes. Just the other day, my mom asked Steven if he wanted to come with us to Orlando– she would by the ticket. But Steven is in his busy season at work, so he can’t come. If I ever turn down a free trip to Orlando, put out a hit on me. I mean, it’s good we have hardworking people like Steven as our nuclear energy risk analysts, but free time is undervalued.

That being said, if anyone in the finance, data analytics, or legal industries is looking for an intern, please hire me. I don’t value free time that much. 

Megan

P.S. Check out this fancy new layout. Moving up in the world.

P.P.S. Add me on LinkedIn

8 Things I Learned in The South

I was born in Topeka, Kansas and lived there until my freshman year of college. When I moved to Alabama, I did not think it would be that different. Both Kansas and Alabama were solid red states with an agrarian past, and though those were the only traits they had in common, it seemed like enough. I was wrong. Without further undulation, Eight Things I Learned in The South.

1. Where you’re from matters. It’s not enough to be from Birmingham; people want to know if you’re from Homewood or Vestavia Hills. Other popular questions include what high school you went to and if you have ever lived anywhere else. I once had a conversation with someone who argued that Kansas was “kind of like the South” even when I argued vehemently that it wasn’t (I think he was trying to do me a favor). In the South, meeting someone new inherently involves an unabridged geographic autobiography.
2. Food. The South has a monopoly on fried chicken. In fact, the easiest way to tell if you’re in the South is if the McDonald’s still carries the Southern Style Chicken Biscuit for breakfast. On another note, southerners have terrible Mexican food and can’t or won’t admit it.
3. Names. If you’re moving to the South, you need to step up your name game. The towns have great names: Hoxie, Humansville, Tupelo; the streets have great names: Tallapoosa, Arkadelphia; and the people have great names: Caroline, Mary Collier, anything ending in a III or IV. Southern names have spice.
4. Getting ready. I was not prepared for the amount of effort Southern women put into their appearance. I have never heard one say “Am I wearing too much makeup?” or “Does this outfit look like a costume?” even though sometimes the answer is yes. The concept of a natural look is not very popular here.
5. Dating. Dating in the South is magical. A Southern man carries no qualms about paying for dinner. I am actually unsure if my arms are physically capable of opening a door for myself or if they have atrophied beyond repair from disuse. I once offended a boyfriend by telling him I could walk myself home. It is truly a whole new world.
6. The climate. “Brrr,” says a Southerner wearing a long sleeve t-shirt when it’s 40 degrees outside. Southern people seem unfamiliar with the concept of anything heavier than a light jacket. I want to tell them that they don’t have to live this way; they can put on a coat.
7. Attractions. I can visit Gulf Shores, New Orleans, Nashville, the Great Smokey Mountains, Atlanta, Birmingham, and just about every SEC college town within five hours of Tuscaloosa. Within five hours of Topeka, I can go to such marvelous destination as Kansas City, St. Louis, Omaha, and Oklahoma City. The last two only half count because they’re terrible.
8. We have different definitions of what a gas station is. In Kansas, a gas station is a place for gas, snacks, and grabbing a gallon of milk when you forgot it at the grocery store. In Alabama, you can buy beer at the gas station but you can’t buy a zero-calorie beverage. Alabama gas stations are what stereotypes are based upon.

I wrote this for my Southern Studies class but it is 100% true. I only feel the need to tell y’all this because it violates my personal standard against writing lists but I actually thought it was pretty fun so I’m a hypocrite. Maybe there will be more lists in our future. Maybe I have a new lease on life.

Y’all.

Megan

Word Vomit

My mom and I are very similar, which is concerning because I have already reached her level of… let’s say executive skills… in the few short years I’ve been on Earth. And by executive skills, I don’t mean earning power, but rather the need and desire to achieve and tell others what to do. Being in charge is a burden I would not want for anyone else, mostly because then I wouldn’t be in charge. Still, besides our drive, my mom and I share a desire to be what she once called “observational students of life.” Two observations I’ve been thinking on this week:

One thing I was very surprised to find is that people don’t really change in college, which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Of course I changed in the sense that I made new friends and developed some capability to behave like a responsible adult, but my core motivations didn’t change dramatically.

I don’t know what I expected. Though I love going to school at Alabama, it’s not any secret that it was my safety school. After an intense season– year, in actuality– of college applications, making a decision, especially a comfortable one, was an immense relief. I imagined myself luxuriating in the free time and plentiful social events I would experience in college. The phrase “C’s get degrees” played in my head like the comforting introduction to an episode of Law and Order: SVU lulling me to sleep. In my imagination, college was a collage of parties, sorority crafting (?), and decorating my dorm (???). I never considered that I am both sort of messy and totally neurotic about building my resumè, which is not really cohesive to that sort of lifestyle.

The first time I applied for something in college, I had no college activities or experiences. I think I had a low level identity crisis. “Who am I without my accomplishments?” I wondered as I lie in the fetal position covered in a marinara sauce stained blanket (#dormgoals). Instead of developing some sort of greater identity not based on extracurriculars, I applied for everything. I actually was able to do most of the things for which I applied, which was like a gentle rub of Bengay on the sore muscle that is my inferiority complex. It was great. It still is great. I love being involved. I love meetings. I’m addicted to power.

…

Young people are really flippant about cancer. The attitude seems to be that we are all going to die somehow and it doesn’t really matter how, but that is bullshit. If we can decide lethal injections are more humane than death by firing squad, certainly other natural deaths have a hierarchy. Cancer is pretty much the “stoning” of natural deaths. If you die of cancer, you will probably die unnaturally young, it will be excruciatingly (and let’s not undermine this part– excruciatingly) painful, and you will likely know for a few months that your death is imminent. I know young people aren’t world-renowned for their ability to weigh present benefit and future cost, but it makes me want to get a tattoo on my forehead of the blog my mom wrote about my aunt Kris’s decline over the span of 5 months so I can point to it whenever someone says “We all die somehow anyway!” Oh yeah, 42 is practically ancient! I’m sure I won’t care how I go by then. Pain is a construct and your family is just a group of people that share DNA. Shades of gray have no meaning; the world is black and white.

Learn more about melanoma, the black ribbon cancer (yes, really) here.

In an effort not to end this post with bitterness I maybe should’ve rearranged these stories but I like to think of every blog post as a journey into my stream of consciousness, which is my favorite style of writing because you can have terrible transitions and no true message to your stories and it’s still fine.

It’s fine,

Megan

Posts to look out for: some product reviews, some sorority stuff I’ve been baking on for a while, vague promises to post more frequently with little follow through.

Last month in anythingforajoke: I Turned Twenty and All I Got I Got Was This Quarter-Life Crisis!