I feel like the pretty girl at the high school dance.
(Note: I am not pretty. I am not a girl. And as the philosopher Phil Collins wrote in his seminal essay, "I can't dance.")
I don't like to mention the newspapers I'm interviewing with because I think that's a private transaction. But both are good products with local ownership.
I've tried to remind myself as I have searched for jobs lo these three months that I'm doing so in a damaged industry, during a pandemic and in the worst economy in the last 80 years.
That does not always placate my subconscious, where rationalizations are not allowed.
Last night I had a dream that I had been placed in charge of a series of small farms. Immediately animals began to die. Then I came down with COVID-19. And early onset dementia. I could not figure out how to turn on the TV. I had no idea how to answer the door even through it was my mom knocking.
It became clear to everyone involved I didn't know what I was doing. That I had an intellectual deficit. That if allowed, there would be more deaths of innocent animals and no crops for years. Yet no one fired me and I didn't quit and this seemed to continue for hours. And hours. I finally forced myself to wake up when there was no end in sight.
I've read enough dream interpretation books to know this comes from feelings of poor self-worth and loss of control. The deaths of animals is about loss period.
Yet when I woke up, my 54-year-old fat self, I was talking with a second newspaper in the worst economy of my life.
OK. Somehow, I'll be fine.
Just don't leave me charge of critters. Because they all gonna die.
Peace and life unto you my brothers and sisters.