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Lizz Westman, Unemployment Diarist

It’s been 31 days, which is officially a month. You have officially been out of work for a month.

Yesterday, on Day 30, you had a half-assed day dream in which Morgan Spurlock showed up with video cameras and revealed that the lay-off had all been a reality experiment for F/X – put the stressed out writer/producer/editor/whatever out of work and see how she reacts… But you know what she does. She naps.  Then she hyperventilates. Then she sends out resumes and is joined by her friend, a bottle of sauvignon blanc.  Early in the morning you can see her hiking through Griffith Park with her dog. (Those are the days you manage to get out of bed before noon, mostly because you were up until 3 a.m. wondering just how long you can live on a cashed-out 401K and HOLY SHIT YOU FORGOT TO CANCEL HBO.)

You make up for lost time and pretend you’re on vacation.  Hell, you didn’t get one during the good times, so why not now?  You exercise every day and return phone calls and actually make a dinner instead of calling it in for takeout. You start knitting that patchwork blanket for your brother. You spend hours researching LOST theories in your pajamas. You make plans to go on day trips to get out of the city. But the panic looms just around the corner.

You meet with old friends for the first time since January, and everyone tells you how great you look, rested and tan.  Apparently this faux life of leisure looks good on you.  Your former coworkers feign envy at your newfound “freedom,” though you can tell from their manic giggles that they’re worried they may be next. Everyone offers a sympathetic ear or tells a tale of another talented, overworked writer/producer/editor/whatever going through the same thing.  “Great,” you think to yourself, “another fucking person who will be applying to that gig in Santa Monica.”  Of course, you don’t actually want to live in Santa Monica.  You don’t even want to go to brunch there.  You’re not even sure you want the position, but you definitely want the offer.

You start working on that script or novel or short story you’ve been putting off, only to realize you’re  really burned out after four years of writing pap.  Every word you put on the page looks pretentious and stiff. It becomes painful, like relearning how to ride a bike… no, like relearning how to do a sit up or an excruciating yoga pose.  It’s slow, it’s tedious, it’s not working.  Adaptation makes sense again.  Hmm, maybe you should go out for a muffin and coffee.

You cancel your weekend plans because you’re too terrified to use your savings for fun.  You consider taking up Internet dating if only for the free food.

You kick yourself for not applying to graduate school last fall.  You kick yourself for taking a new, “better” job with normal hours and the chance to watch sitcoms weeks before the air date.  You kick yourself for not joining the union or the guild when you had the cash to spare.  You start to worry your teeth will fall out as you have no dental insurance.  No really, you do. You consider buying a helmet and wrist protectors for when you go hiking in the mountains as both seem cheaper than health insurance. Why the hell don’t you have health insurance?!

You calm down a bit and continue sending out resumes. You expand the search to the Bay Area, then Portland, then Seattle.  Three more cities get you one, maybe two jobs to apply to, but you’ve seen those listings before. They were there when you were working 55 hours a week and fantasizing about leaving the city for someplace simpler, more bike-friendly and with more microbreweries per capita.  Then you remember the last time you committed career suicide, when you left New York.  You reconsider that job uploading coupons to a recipe site.  You reconsider applying to Mattel, even if the commute is three hours.

The looming panic overwhelms you, forcing you to collapse on your bed.  You check email from your laptop. You watch Auntie Mame on Netflix. You talk to your unemployed designer friend who reminds you that everyone’s fucked. You drive past a sign offering $3 haircuts. You take a deep breath, head to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of wine.

–Lizz Westman