Black Coffee

I’m talking to the shadows, 1 o’clock to 4
And lord, how slow the moments go when all I do is pour
Black coffee
Since the blues caught my eye
I’m hanging out on Monday
My Sunday dreams too dry

Now a man is born to go a lovin
A woman’s born to weep and fret
To stay at home and tend her oven
And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes
Ella Fitzgerald/Petula Clark

Unemployment is like:
A. Prison
B. Pergatory
C. Vacation
D. Hell
E. All of the above

It is 10 am on a Thursday, and while the rest of the working world has settled at their desks and about on their way for their first coffee break of the day, here I am writing this on a comfy, pillow-top bed watching the rain. In a disappointing twist, I have actually showered and dressed already, but this was to run an early morning errand.

Unemployment for me is like time-out. As a kid, I was no stranger to time-out. I was never bad, just merely curious. I was a hit amongst my preschool classmates when I saved them from dozing off at naptime or opened the gate and liberated them from the playground. And just how many times do you have to pull a black cat’s tail before she hisses? Failed flying adventures often led me to the time-out chair, where I was instructed to sit quietly and think about why I was there for however many minutes equaled my age. That was mom’s rule of thumb.

So, understandably, this bout of unemployment (and recent underemployment) is a bit inhumane.

I am not going to fool you. The time-out chair is now a beautiful home on a lake about 45 minutes outside of the city. I am kept company by a naked quaker parrot who coos to Petula Clark and laughs at inopportune times (like when Julia Roberts is about to get raped in “Pretty Woman”, or when Julia Roberts goes into diabetic shock in “Steel Magnolias“, or anytime Julia Roberts is doing anything serious). When it is sunny, I like to sit on the deck in the summer heat and read, which has resulted in a couple of sunburns.

While this sounds just as tragic as Martha Stewart’s house arrest, I still have countless hours to recap how I ended up here. Let’s replay:

I accepted a job instead of going to graduate school. I worked in education. Anything with the word “education” in the organization title is like a promise to go to hell in a hand basket during an economic downturn. I knew being the newest employee and the one always last invited out for Friday cheers meant my head was on the chopping block, but I still stuck it in the sand.

Moral of the Story: When you see the writing on the wall, don’t walk. . . Run like you wrote it.

Anyways, there are several things others (read: employed-people) have a hard time understanding about The Unemployed. Sure, right now, unemployment is in fashion. If you have money, you go green. If you are poor, you lose your job. If you think you’re rich, you lose your job (unless you really are rich. I mean, you don’t hear Bill Gates or Donald Trump or George Bush complaining about the recession).

The others (read: employed-people), while comprehending the concept, fail to empathize that the loss of a job is indeed just that-- a loss. It comes with a grieving process I’m not sure where I fit in. Think about it: Since I was 16 years old, I have woken up every morning with a mission, a task, a chore. I sold my soul to it. Now POOF! I have what every working stiff wishes for: Free time.

Just what do The Unemployed do during their days? Well, that depends soley on the person and their walk in life. But if you young, semi-single and childless, it probably goes a little like this:

Wake up with employed boyfriend (yes, I am unemployed and shacking up with my boyfriend, which makes me a winner at family get-togethers). Try to convince him to play hookie. Go back to sleep when he leaves.

Try to wake up at 11 am. Fail. Try to wake up at noon. Fail. Finally force myself out of the wooly comfort of my bed around 1 pm because I either need to make lunch in a jiff or find spare change to order off of the Dollar Menu at McDonald’s.

Make friends with the neighbors by dancing around the house in my underwear to Madonna or Lady Gaga. I forget we don’t have curtains sometimes.

Experiment with hairstyles. I am master the “poof”. Expertly apply make-up.

Surprise the UPS guy by answering the door wearing nothing but a slinky robe. Or scare FedEx guy by answering the door with curlers and a glass of sherry while blasting lounge music from “The Graduate.”

Slut it up in outfits that are not tasteful to wear in the workplace. I only get to be unemployed once (hopefully).

Consider honing and perfecting the domestic arts to make myself useful. Decide against it for now.

Read great works of literature, like “The Secret” or “What Should I Do With My Life?” or “Who Are You and What Do You Want?” Public libraries are a great thing.

Freshen up before The Man comes home. Greet him with a long, sweet kiss that makes his knees buckle. I had hours to practice.

Cook dinner while watching “Jeopardy” and try to answer as much as I can correctly. I didn’t go to college and sign over my left kidney to student lenders for nothing.

Bake a cake. I’m getting really good at this. It’s as though the banking industry said to the masses “let them eat cake” and I am.

Catch the latest movies on Netflix. Catch the oldest movies on Netflix streaming.

Lay in bed until 3 am, trying not to let the misspelled rejection letters get to the ego I worked on inflating all day.

I hope this clarifies any misconceptions the others have of The Unemployed and our time usage (suckage). Don’t let the glibness fool you. I come from the Entitlement Generation. It didn’t take me long after graduation to realize that the “uniqueness” my mom touted for 23 years is actually a personality trait that my entire generation inherited. With that, I sought out enjoy the finer (read, cheap) things in life, look for riches of the heart. I started preparing for a life of humbleness and humility before the recession struck.

Trust me. No amount of “What Color Is Your Parachute” can prepare you to have your heart ripped out of your chest and served back to you on a plastic platter by your boss.

Even still, I am told again and again, that there is a silver lining. I will be okay. I’m sure my grandparents heard this same advice during the Great Depression.

After all of that, my grandmother still will say that those years were some of the best she had.

Perhaps, when I am that age, I will say the same.