Under Employed

“A Captain of Industries,” that was going to be me.  Work my way up the corporate ladder of success.  Go to college.  Work hard.  Work smart.  Stock options.  Retire early.  The good life belongs to good people.

One college education, several corporate mergers later and I’m stocking shelves in a grocery store.  Pride was no match for my bills.  I tell myself I’m a writer.  The job is temporary, all jobs are temporary.  Who I am is not temporary.  Under employed writer sounds better than just being under employed.

The world is filled with middle aged men and woman, like me who are making less and working harder.  Gain a little weight, lose a little hair, get a little older add a few wrinkles.  The employment picture changes for all but the luckiest of the luckiest.  No one cries for the men and woman who lost or missed their American Dream in the aging process.

The grind of every day holds them down.  Hope is lost in the passing of time.  Early graves wait for them.  Cause of death, broken heart, resulting from dreams that didn’t come true. 

Shut your eyes.  Fall asleep.  Die at your desk, no reason to make any noise now.  Everyday spending didn’t leave any money for tomorrow.  Tomorrow is here.  Retire into poverty.  How could you plan for a world of disappointment?  The last chapter of life should not be defined by a job that requires a paper hat – plastic apron or the ability to suggest a side order of fries.  Memories of what could have been shade the thoughts of everything you do.

How did this happen?  Bad Luck.  Lost Opportunities.  Poor Health.  Errors in Judgment.  Relationships beyond repair.  Suffocating Responsibilities.  Pick an answer, any one of them, or all of them fit.

Old people think you’re young.  Young people think you’re old.  Khaki pants.  White oxford shirt.  Comfortable shoes.  The uniform of everyday helps you blend in.  Clothes can cover you, but they can’t hide you.  Goodbyes to who you really are, you mumble to yourself.  All your days muddle together, as you meet the requirements of being less than the person you thought you would be.

Keep working.  Smile.  What else can I do?  Send my brilliant prose to a publisher.  No.  That would mean that I have hope for the future.