That awkward moment when a job that had no creative requirements listed in its description asks to see your artistic portfolio, specifically with things “you created using the Adobe suite.”
Am the only one who feels like the karma police when it comes to people who have wronged me? You know, like, “You made me feel awkward at a party once! So it’s not fair that you graduated summa cum laude!” or some variation on the theme.
I recently found out that this huge bitch I went to school with is… doing, well, all in all, some pretty unremarkable things, but I was nonetheless jealous when I fell for the obvious click-bait on her Facebook status and started reading her shitty blogspot. And like, yeah, okay, I “own” that I’m currently complaining on a shitty WordPress but at least I have no illusions about it. You know what I mean? Some people make blogger accounts and because they have a purchased theme they think they’re the next Emily Gould. Or whoever. Here’s a head’s up: You’re not. None of us are.
Anyway, let me break it down for you:
(1) She works two ordinary entry level part time jobs…and this is after a year or more of full time work. She described one of these jobs as ‘cushy.’ Like the creep that I am, I immediately glassdoored the salary and found out that it’s barely a step up from your standard, non-finance, non-consulting entry level salary. It’s ‘cushy’ compared to being a cashier at Target or I guess, her old job, which was as an underpaid personal assistant with no benefits, including no health insurance, which I believe she was legally entitled to but refused to ask for because it would ‘piss her already pissed boss off.’ The other job is ostensibly in the film industry and, if I recall correctly, is not only part time but also temporary.
(2) In this post she describes wanting to save up for the forms she needs to get an EU passport. I have an EU passport and am, through a technicality, entitled to another one. I have no reason to be jealous as it affords her absolutely nothing that I don’t already have access to (in spades!), but I have never been so insulted by a notion in my life. I immediately think like, “How dare you?” How dare you claim citizenship in a country that is absolutely not your own, a country you’ve been claiming you’re “from” since I met you, a country that you’re not only categorically not from, but that my parent is from? (And sadly, the extension to that is: how dare you speak the language, when I own property there and can barely muster a ‘hello’? Uh.)
(3) The other thing she wants to save up for are two trips, one to a place I’m going in a month and a half on my parents’ dime, and one to a place I lived in for three months…on my dime, but I got that dime from a trust fund.
When I write it all out, I guess the problem is abundantly clear and has less to do with me playing “karma police,” and is more…well, a more personal struggle. Sure, it’s plain, even unwarranted, jealousy, but it also comes from a place of fear. Fear that her dreams will come to fruition when mine…are…taking detours. If we take this all a step further, in a perfect universe, here’s what I’m envision and it’s probably what she envisions too:
A girl who has stable work and connections in the entertainment industry, who has the right to live and work abroad and no one—not her husband, not her mother—is stopping her. She has no baggage to weigh her down. A girl with a lot of potential to be powerful and successful. A girl who’s worldly, who’s well-traveled, who’s cultured in that way only a European or expat can be and who, if she’s not one herself, hobnobs with the rich and famous. A girl who hates me, to boot.
And then there are tangential images of rich men exposing her to things that I’ll only see in my wildest dreams and her, at thirty, flirty, thriving and tits perkier than ever, marrying the German equivalent of Prince Harry or like, the next Steve Jobs. Who’s also European. And in both scenarios they’re incredibly handsome. Jeremy Meeks handsome. But like, if Jeremy Meeks was a French rockstar.
The assumption is, of course, is that I wind up an utter failure. I guess that’s my insecurity and at the end of the day…my cross to bear—not hers.