It's been a week since I lost my job.
It's been a quick week.
Amidst finding new doctors, collecting my things, chasing wifi signals, depositing checks, going on dates, and taking hikes, I haven't had much chance to feel lost. I haven't had much chance to figure things out.
But the people I meet, who invariably ask me, "What do you do?", have had a surprisingly Type A, New York City-style line of questioning for me. "So do you have any interviews set up? Have you sent out your resumes to everybody? What's the next job for you? Are you going to move to the Silicon Valley to work at another tech startup?"
But I have taken a decidedly Californian approach to the matter, saying, "I don't know yet. I've got to take some time to figure it out."
LA is a great place to be unemployed, with its easily accessible wilderness, relentless entertainment and events, and pervasive A-list fabulosity. I haven't even been tempted to feel desperate here. And that's a good thing, because showing desperation is one sure-fire way of not getting hired.
I have to figure something out soon. After all, I don't have that much time. But in the immediate future, I have to figure out where to get my car washed. I still have to do my 2010 taxes. I have to get my headshot prints. I have to drop some old clothes off to Goodwill.
Maybe after I take care of me for a while, my next move will be revealed to me, something that truly is meant to be. It was just over a year ago that I thought I would be moving to LA to work for Disney, a job opportunity that fell through at the last minute. I eventually made it to LA, relocated here by a job that also fell through, this time after three months. Clearly, that one wasn't meant to be either.
But, I believe, I am meant to be in LA.
At least, for now.
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