I am unemployed. A bold choice, I know, in this economy. But I’ve decided to do it with flair. Not your run-of-the-mill, pajama-clad Netflix unemployment. No, I’m treating my joblessness like an elite lifestyle brand. I don’t have a job, I have a portfolio of unpaid chaos.
People assume unemployment is restful. That’s a myth peddled by the gainfully employed to keep hope alive. In reality, being unemployed is like being the intern for your own nervous breakdown — underqualified, overcommitted, and responsible for absolutely everything. My Google Calendar looks like I’m coordinating a minor global summit. There are color-coded blocks for things like “rotate indoor plants,” “watch TED Talk on productivity guilt,” and “stare at ceiling, contemplate nothing, reschedule ceiling time because of podcast backlog.”
I get up early. Not because I want to, but because once you’re unemployed, your brain starts hosting an all-day anxiety convention. Every morning at 6:17, a small, panicked voice whispers, “Have you rebranded yourself on LinkedIn today?” Then another one says, “You should probably launch a Substack,” and then a third chimes in, “Is it weird to list ‘catching up on dry cleaning’ under Skills on a résumé?”
By 7:30 I’ve consumed three articles titled things like “How to Stay Relevant After You’ve Disappeared” and “Turning Failure into Freelance Opportunities.” I start making lists. There’s the “Important Tasks” list, the “Should Already Have Done This” list, and the existential one titled simply, “Why.” I spend a lot of time moving items between them like some kind of motivational shell game.
I’ve taken on so many side projects I’m no longer sure what the sides are. I’m editing a neighbor’s screenplay, ghostwriting a friend’s wedding toast, and beta-testing an app that sends daily affirmations in the voice of Werner Herzog. (“Today, you will conquer the bleak futility of breakfast.”) I help people name their cats. I sit on Zoom panels called things like “Resilience in the Time of You.” I have hobbies I didn’t even know were hobbies. I recently made artisanal vinegar. It failed. Now it’s just a jar of sadness in my fridge labeled “Do Not Open — Lessons Inside.”
I am networking so hard I’ve started dreaming in elevator pitches. I once had a 45-minute coffee with someone who turned out to be an insurance chatbot. We’re still in touch.
And the productivity guilt — my God. I took a nap last Thursday and had to fill out a time-off request form for myself. I denied it, citing “low quarterly motivation metrics.” On Fridays I do “performance reviews” with my cat. She’s brutal. Keeps mentioning my declining treat delivery KPIs.
I now understand why billionaires buy islands. It’s not about luxury. It’s about not having to explain what you do all day. When people ask me what I’m working on, I say, “Mostly the burden of potential.” Then I wink, like that’s a brand. I haven’t worn real pants in weeks, but I’ve curated an entire aesthetic: “Unhired, But Make It Fashion.” I wear a lot of structured loungewear and emotionally complex socks.
People say, “This is the time to discover your true passion.” I’ve discovered I’m passionate about not being on hold with the unemployment office. I’ve also discovered a deep passion for alphabetizing spices I never use and feeling superior to people who don’t own whole cloves.
I am absolutely drowning in opportunity. Just not the kind that pays. But if you need someone to consult on your podcast about burnout, help edit your online dating profile, or brainstorm names for your kombucha start-up, I’m your guy. My rates are flexible. In fact, they’re imaginary.
So yes, I am unemployed. But don’t you dare call me idle. I am aggressively scheduled, emotionally overleveraged, and spiritually booked until further notice. I am the busiest broke person I know. I don’t work, but I am absolutely full-time.
And frankly, I’m starting to think I might be overqualified for this unemployment thing.