The Employment Diaries

Warming up 04.03.10

Happy Easter Sunday to all!

When you’re unemployed statutory holidays are nothing other than meaning you have to fake-agree with employed people that “it’s so nice to have another two days off” and a crude reminder you have no schedule, purpose, prospects, etc…

Sitting in my backyard this evening, I eavesdropped on two neighborhood moms having a conversation about the long weekend.

Mom #1: “How is your Easter going?”

Mom #2: “Great. We didn’t plan anything and it was so relaxing.”

Mom #1: “I know. Isn’t it great? Having the whole day to do whatever you want!”

I felt like pulling a Wilson, peeking over the gate and saying, “that’s underrated.”

So thanks Jesus for making me have to stock up on wine Thursday instead of Friday and canceling my fitness class tomorrow. Sure glad you came back for another peek…

Speaking of exercise, here’s a story of how I now fill my 8:30-9:30 a.m. time slot. For those of you who have requested more pictures, prepare for regret.

Enjoy!

The woman facing me is at least 30 years my elder, with a body I’ll never have.  Her platinum blonde ponytail bounces as she moves her turquoise spandex-clad, hard-as-finding-a-job body. Next time I’m wearing make-up to fitness class.

Game face: ON

Today’s instructor, Jeanette, is a spitfire of a woman with a slight Quebecois accent and a dark tan. She teaches fitness on cruise ships, makes work-out videos, and once had a boyfriend who hooked me up with tickets to 50 cent’s after party when he played in Ottawa (no word on whether fiddy showed up. I was too busy puking in the club parking lot).

I’m at the 8:30 class at my local community centre, which most employed people can’t make it to. My parents are on a trip and I suddenly feel inspired to use my mom’s fitness pass. Though I usually groan and pull the covers up at her attempts to coerce me into joining her, doing aerobics through my own initiative feels adult and desirable. There’s also something about watching my mom bounce up and down like she’s wearing moonboots when mine feel attached to bricks that doesn’t taste good for breakfast.

Most of the twenty people taking the class are middle-aged women (ladies with home offices who make their own schedule, or housewives) and older, retired women. I’m the odd-ball, along with the lone guy with the skinny legs who’s always smiling. He knows the odds are good.

I take a spot towards the back as Jeanette cranks the electro music.

“There’s no mic today so pay attention to the choreography” she pipes. “I want my voice for the weekend so I’m not gonna yell.”

Choreography? How hard can it be? The answer is me flailing my arms trying to keep up with swift, flight attendant-like instructions Jeanette makes to indicate a different move. I’m tripping over my own grape-vine and during a break Jeanette asks me with a concerned look if I’m doing okay.

Most of the women follow without blinking an eye. It’s their religion. The woman with a blue top and short black curly-hair, who I recognize from every class I’ve ever been to and always stands right beside the instructor, barely breaks a sweat or a smile.

Jeanette keeps yipping like a yappy dog to get our energy up and all I can think is how I could actually curl up in the corner and fall asleep instantly.

We spin around and I notice the woman behind me is having the time of her life. She’s thin and lanky, with pigtails, googly eyes, and slightly crooked front teeth. Her smile is wide as a boat.

She starts yipping along with Jeanette, and someone in the bank lets out a sustained “whooooooooooooooo” while we’re holding a squat.

I wonder why I’m not in bed.

I come to these classes because it gives me a sense of purpose, a schedule in an otherwise improvised day. It’s something to check off the list just in case I do nothing for the rest of the day.  It’s a chance to have a boss for an hour and blindly follow instructions, or a “workplace” where I feel like I’m working hard towards something with other people.

Today, I’m the wet-blanket employee not pulling my weight and wish I’d called in sick.

Somewhere between running circles around the room and gathering tight in the centre to do those small football-player like steps, I catch the team spirit. Maybe my endorphins are kicking in. Maybe this is a breakthrough. Another “aha” moment.

We resume our spots facing the front of the room and that Love Inc. song called “Superstar” comes on. I’m singing along, shaking my head, air-mouthing lyrics. It’s like I’m on ecstasy at 9 a.m. with a bunch of my mom’s friends. This is the hottest club in town.

Jeanette tells us to grab a sip of water (they say to stay hydrated when taking amphetamines) and I bump into my friend’s mom I’ve been avoiding eye contact with.

“Hi! Are you here on vacation?” she says.

“Um, no,” I say. “I’m living here.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding a little surprised.

Then I proceed to explain life is pretty laid back:  freelancing here and there, and taking care of my grandpa while my parents are gone.

“Good,” she says, trying to be encouraging. “You don’t want to be working hard when the nice weather’s coming!”

“ACTUALLY I’M DYING TO WORK HARD,” I felt like screaming. “I COME HERE TO FEEL A PART OF SOMETHING! DO YOU KNOW OF SOMETHING I COULD BE A PART OFF? ANYTHING!!”

I guess every drug experience has its erratic come down.

Game face: OFF.

We move to the wall and start doing butt exercises. I bond with the middle-aged woman beside me as we struggle to hold our feet in the air while sweat beads commit suicide off our faces.

The boss is working us hard, and that team-like feeling is restored in the office.  I’m never taking drugs at work again.

To feel a little ecstasy of your own, here’s Love INC’s Superstar.

For the comedown, here’s a depressing article about the growth of unpaid internships  from the New York Times (If you have a good story about an unpaid internship, let me know for your chance to be featured on the Diaries!)