With that, it was over. My first real “adult” job. Gone. Six months of roller coaster emotion, sleepless nights, inane pressure and some interesting moral debates was, simply, over. I’d know it was coming. I think we all had.
“It’s like you’ve switched off” they said and honestly…..I had. I’m no sales woman. I’m happy to sell a slice of cake for a good cause; ask me to sell you a dream and I’m your girl, but give me a spreadsheet and numbers to hit by the end of play and I’ll struggle. I was left overwhelmed with fears of not reaching far off targets, paranoia about ideal sales figures that were never really explained and a lasting embitterment towards google spreadsheets.
Bizarrely, for someone trained in performance I’ve always been pretty bad at hiding how I feel (something that makes my poor mother despair and my friends fear sitting next to me during particularly arduous pieces of theatre). Therefore, the above described “switching off” was written all over my face.
So, here I am now. Unemployed. With nothing but a pipe dream and the cup of coffee sat in front of me. If you’ve ever been unemployed as an “adult” (and I use that term very, very loosely) then you’ll understand the overwhelming fear of someone asking you the inevitable question:
“So. What next?”
I DON’T KNOW OK!?!?!?! I DON’T FREAKING KNOW
Ground control to Major Tom. Panic stations are go.
I’ve had a week and after an impromptu break in the sun, a lot of late nights with the two poor housemates this blog is named for and a hard look at myself, ‘Next’ is looking a bit like this: I’m going to cook and eat, and I’m going to write about it. Hopefully you’re going to read it, relate to it and maybe even laugh a bit at a person desperately spinning sugar attempting to be a real adult.