A Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe,

So it seems you’ve decided to prove Mick Jagger right. I can’t always get what I want; you’ve given me something I need instead.

Universe, before this recession started, I had more money saved up than I’ve ever had before, enough that I felt proud and secure for my future (at least in the short-term, I wouldn’t dare predict to be satisfied with my life to come). I’d almost reached my goal of ten thousand whole dollars when my freelance contract with my company ran out and I was booted, jobless but hardly without prospects, onto the warm autumn New York streets.

This was September of last year. We were still learning the depth of our future economic despair – or at least I was. I wasn’t worried. I’d been working steadily since the summer after my college graduation, two years before. I had contacts. I had connections. I had decent people on the lookout for my future; friends, former colleagues, even former bosses, one of whom I assumed powerful and kind enough to be a true asset (she turned out to be no such thing).

What happened next is probably obvious, and while unfortunate, not nearly as bad as other people suffer in the current economic climate. I assumed a life of underemployment and optimism, landing the occasional gig with a production house I’d had constant contact with at my last job. I learned how to manage slides for corporate presentations, and for the holidays I returned to my beloved college job at an expensive Swiss chocolate shop – only to find I’d outgrown it. Through New York Cares I started co-team-leading a drama club at an elementary school up in Washington Heights. My co-team-leader is an actress in the same boat I’m paddling. At any moment we knew either of us might abandon the other to re-enter the work-force – that inflexible mistress – fulltime.

It’s February now, and that hasn’t happened. The drama club will soon shake off its winter hiatus and I will be back, juggling along with it all the endeavors that have filled my own “hiatus.” These include an epic webisode series that I’ve written and produced (not alone, but with an old classmate who reached out for help), an internship with two producers who aspire to finance both their first film and new production company, putting the finishing touches on a short film I wrote and produced nearly a year ago, signing on as location manager for a friend’s short film, and preparing for a showcase my writers’ group plans to put up in June. Of course, I’m also writing as much as I can. Right now I’m trying to complete a script good enough to send me to LA for a year through a writing fellowship. As a side note, I don’t want to move to LA.

But in six months of un(der)employment, I’ve burned through my savings. My beautiful, hard-earned, softly-padded cushion of thousands are nearly gone, lost to rent, groceries, dinner meetings, books that must be read and films that must be seen in theaters (what kind of creative-type would I be if I gave those up??), holiday gifts and miscellaneous crap. The same optimism that knew this could happen (but also knew I was prepared for it!) made me spurn unemployment. As a Democrat, I shake my head at my own stupid prejudice against the government’s doling me out a weekly crutch. After all, aren’t I one of the poor people for whose gain I supported President Obama?

What it comes down to is this, dear Universe. I’m far from perfect. I work hard, but not my hardest. I try hard, but not my hardest. I’m creative but I don’t exercise my mind, or my discipline to the extent that I should. However. I did not roll over and give up, not even on my dreams. I’ve applied to every production job listing under the sun. I’ve emailed my contacts, asked for help, and most importantly to my mind, never stopped working, never stopped taking on projects, paid or not. I’m not saying that I’m too good or too special not to have a job in my field of choice. I’m saying that for my field, I’m a find.

That doesn’t explain today’s job offer. After six months of no luck in the entertainment industry, I retreated to what I could get, instead of even the cusp of what I wanted. Three years of on-and-off experience in high-end retail (oh, that delicious, aggravatingly expensive Swiss chocolate!), I thought maybe I had a shot on Madison Avenue. Turns out I was right, and today I accepted a job to work 30 hours a week at an upscale children’s clothing boutique. The pay is little more than half of what I earned at my last full-time position (though thankfully a little more than I earned at the chocolate store). I can break even again, even if my savings will never be the same with this job.

And so, Universe, you have given me the gift of getting by. I will go back to the world of retail, hoping that the stifled, tired feeling I felt at the end of every workday at the chocolate store will not follow me to this new job. After all, there are new people to meet, new tasks to master, and more responsibilities to assume. A slightly different clientele to serve. You’ve given me the luxury of continuing to seek out my dream job while paying my rent and hanging out with my friends (which in New York City, always means $$). For this gift, I am grateful. Oh, and fuck you.