it’s been three months since i’ve been gainfully employed outside of my home. big hair, cute jewelry, sensible shoes, button-up pants are a distant memory. and the grown up conversation is gone, i miss it.
i wait to be saved.
staying at home, the first month
even though i’m not leaving the house, i can still look my best. i took pride in my appearance. clean jeans, decent-ish hair, minimal makeup, but i was ready to go! all those people that said, “let’s get together … just because we aren’t working together doesn’t mean we won’t still be friends!” you know, the usual banter that goes when you leave a job.
they will call and i will be ready. can i meet you in five minutes? you got it!
i wasn’t used to having time off of work. i did every task super quick because i kept thinking i’d be starting a new job soon.
staying at home, the second month
they aren’t calling. no one’s calling. i’ll put on real pants if someone calls. if someone calls, i will pretend that i was going to finish scrubbing the floors and then take a shower. if someone calls, i have six excuses for not wearing real pants. and by not wearing “real pants” i mean i was wearing ridiculously threadbare guitar hero pajama pants. every single day. it became my uniform.
i had gotten so comfortable with myself that i could literally go days without leaving the house. i had secret contests with myself. come on, you made it a full three days in the same clothes before you had to change into jeans to go to the grocery store to buy cheetos so now you can reward yourself by slipping into these threadbare nascar non-pants. you know, the ones with the bleach stains. my hair is longer-ish. sometimes i needed three headbands to keep it in place. i was alright with it.
staying at home, the third month
the decision was final, i would not be returning to a traditional job. at twelve and fourteen, kids are a lot of work. they actually need more supervision and transportation than they did when they were six and eight. they are in extra curricular activities. cheer. drumline. debate. jazz band. pep band. homework. pick up. drop off.
i’m watching pennies because i am no longer gainfully employed. the need for pants seems far away.
staying at home, the start of my fourth month
i’m writing. i’m writing like my life depends on it. i was born to write. even if i’m not read, i must write.
i’m coming back. i’m finding me. i need to discover a way to write for dollars because i still need an income.
i started selling the contents of my attic. i own over three decades of stuff. not because i’m a hoarder, i’m a semi-regular person and i always thought “i can use this later” and it is now later. and i’m earning a modest amount of money by selling the things i’ve saved. look at me, i have financial value again. and tomorrow i’ll think about wearing pants.
i’ve been resourceful. i found a way to pimp out my twitter account for paid advertisements. it’s not a lot of money, but it is still money. and i pre-post for 2 am because somehow that seems less dirty, you know?
i’m de-cluttering. and i’m writing while de-cluttering. you can find my re-sale posts here. my re-sale posts have saved me. i write about an item, i sell an item, i get money for that item. literally, i am writing for dollars.
and then i was discovered. i’m writing ad copy. i’m freelancing. and i’m doing photography. that’s right, with a pocketful of m&ms i am taking pictures and writing words. i am doing what i was meant to do.
now we’re eating more vegetables, there are sit-down dinners. i’m meal planning again. i’m smiling.
i bought athletic clothes. i’m not a runner, but i look like i could be. yoga pants, running tanks, athletic cut sweatshirts.
yoga pants are now my real pants. they are tight, i want my pants tight because they remind me that i have financial value. i need to feel like i am wearing pants.
today, pants and purpose.
tomorrow, the world!
and you can tell your friends that i’ll write for them, too. i’ll bring my a-game and use capital letters.