of wool coats and professional dress

The other night at St J’s, a volunteer, a med student, came out into the waiting area wearing a sweatsuit and speaking like a high school cheerleader.

I’ve had my fair share of sartorial cognitive dissonance in that waiting room. My habit is to dress as if I were, at least, headed for a casual Friday at work. My mother still looks plenty professional on “jeans days”. She pays her money and trades her trousers for denim. I take my cues from her, since she’s never been reprimanded for her style choices. Sometimes I even dress like the woman I wish I had been able to become by now. Sometimes I wear dresses, or muted skirt and top combinations. I own a wool coat and I’m not afraid to deploy it.

Henry owns a wool coat.

Henry is a gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties, with glasses (I think) and not a lot of hair on top but plenty on the sides, gray and curly. I think he must have had some great misfortune. Maybe he fell into drink. Maybe he lost a niche job that paid very well. I know he is literate because he haunts the book rack. I know he has no car, perhaps no license, because he waits for a ride. I suspect he is starving because he takes bread from the basket.

I hurt for Henry because I know what it’s like to expect much of oneself and live up to none of it after all. I don’t know what he thinks when he sees “professionals” half his age dressed like chavs, but I know he still wears the trousers and button-downs he must have worn to work. Maybe they are all the clothes he owns. Maybe that’s who he is, much like I’m the kind of woman who owns nice jeans and the odd pair of leggings, but also dresses and pretty shoes.

I know that it hurt me deeply to realise that a girl in a tracksuit, bearing herself much as a teenager might, was still my superior. Be damned to the idea that nobody can make you feel inferior without your permission. I felt plenty inferior, against my will, because no matter what I tell myself, at the end of the day I’m still an idiot undergraduate and she has taken steps toward a real career, has somehow gotten into a brilliant university. Didn’t carry herself as if she had much of a brain, mind you, but she must underneath the disguise. So why does she hide it? Does she think it makes her more accessible?

It makes her look a right twit. It makes me think “I should be doing your job and you should be asking me for help, not the other way around.” I could, with little difficulty and the theft of a white coat and stethoscope, fool her into believing me her superior. It doesn’t leave me very confident in her abilities.

I want to sit down with Henry and ask him what happened, if it wouldn’t hurt him too badly to say. Lacking that, I want to wear pretty things every week from Tuesday forward and speak with dignity, because someone’s going to have to demonstrate the concept, I see.

What are the broader implications for my future and my profession of choice?

I read a blog called Corporette, whose tagline reads fashion, lifestyle, and career advice for overachieving chicks. Mercifully, the women there don’t poke fun at the helping professions, though from what my textbook implies, they’d have every right to think we were backwards. We’re professionals. Do we care to mark ourselves out as such? Not if the sight of business wear means someone’s going to a funeral.

The people who work where Claudius did until a week ago all dress in oversized tees and ratty jeans, not unlike bored college students. Little wonder they’re being paid student wages, and do student-quality work. They seem not to respect themselves very much. Claudius stopped even pretending to respect my mother and me. From the day he grew that beard, things went downhill, I’d swear it. He began to drink and stink and hate us all the more for expecting him to act like an adult.

Social workers are professionals. Some are clinicians. Some are rescuers of children. Some are just damn good at shifting resources around until the people who need them have them. I may, in the course of my career, be called upon to testify in court. The step from professional to expert witness should not be a leap the likes of which mankind took when it set foot upon the moon. Even when I’m not in court, what do I want to portray? Do I want to embrace the signs which, like it or not, my society deems the markers of competence? As it happens, I do. I want to reassure my clients by my voice and my appearance that I am someone who can help. It doesn’t mean spending big-law money on suiting I’ll wear twice a year. It does mean my separates should be neat and natty, my suits should at least be suits (even if I got them for cheap, in Juniors), and if I can work out in it, I should not be wearing it in the office unless I am teaching some sort of fitness class.

And no bloody Peter Pan collars or twee-arsed bows.

I know there’s a time and a place for relatively casual clothing. As a professional, I should know when that time is, and where the place. Who will teach us if not our forerunners? What example do we intend to set?

Where’s the balance between “person who will help without sneering at you” and “person who appears to be a competent professional”? Surely at some point the two lines cross. Is it possible that the former is so subjective that the latter becomes a matter of personal taste? Or have there been studies as to what makes clients comfortable?

Because I swear I’ll walk out of any office containing a gum-snapping child in a sweatsuit, wondering if I’ve been punked.

a five-day course of (de)reality.

I have been sick since Wednesday, on and off. I felt unwell Tuesday night but not the same kind of unwell as my mother. I’ve had fevers on and off, and no cough, but the strangest nights. I sleep three hours, wake up in terror, try to sleep a few more… even if I tire myself out completely, there’s little chance of peace.

I have had pain on my right side: in the back, along the sides, and memorably nearish my groin (but so far from where one expects to find ureters!). In the vicinity. I am afraid that this is a UTI, especially one that reaches all the way into my kidney; I do not want a kidney infection. I have no doctor. I cannot pay for tests. You’ve never seen anyone pray for a bunch of really tiny kidney stones before. Which this feels like. Sometimes it’s a bit like pissing grit.

Urine no cloudier than usual, a plain light yellow colour. A couple of bubbles. Low, low appetite, and I wouldn’t be surprised if half my trouble was low blood sugar.

— a moment of derealization last night: is this real? It is but it shouldn’t be. I feel a step removed. — they say it’s a result of prolonged anxiety and stress. Maybe my mind, too, has finally Had It Up To Here. God, Buddha, Allah, whoever, let the Medicaid come through so I can promptly check myself into the nearest fixer-upper facility. “Do what you will, so long as I don’t puke,” I will say. “If the insurance balks at paying for the anti-emetics, give me the damned bill. Then send me a hypnotist so I never fear puking again.”

Something out of a really bad film. Something that is too real to be unreal. Jessica, Jessica, I should have let you admit me and to hell with the bills; I’ve a case pending; surely being indigent save for $5000 means I qualify for very extended payment programs anyway? Maybe I should call you, or maybe I should wait for the Advil to kick in and see how my belly likes another bowl of porridge.

Whatever I should feel, I shouldn’t feel like “Where There Is No Doctor” was written for my generation and my cohort. It’s all available. It’s all out of reach. Effectively I’m out in the bush. If I reach, I lose it all.

pinching dimes

Frugality for the upper-middle class always kills me on some level.

For starters, is it frugal or is it just a good idea on paper? The real test of every list of helpful hints and ideas is whether they work in your life. Deep freezers suck for households of fewer than five or six people, who can save more money by only buying what they can feasibly eat. Ditto getting the whole damn ham if you’re not a fanatic.

I would love to see a poor inner-city family frequent a local orchard when it can’t even afford a car and the buses don’t go further than the ‘burbs. Hell, growing one’s own food, even herbs, can be a challenge in an apartment setting. Don’t know if anyone else has noticed this, but you can’t afford to be picky about natural light when your desired rent hits between $500-$800. (If that’s even possible in your city.) Or ventilation, if you want to restore and build furniture for your flat. DIY only goes so far. Even a clothesline is an issue in that case; I doubt I’ll be able to squeeze even a wee drying rack into my first place.

I love how getting rid of your car is a cool idea on this list. Nice to be able to afford a car in the first place, eh? And preventative care! What a genius notion! I would love more of that! But I’m waiting for my Medicaid to come through because I am officially too broke to buy health insurance elsewhere. Sorry.

Speaking of first-world problems: deciding between a laptop and a Bluetooth keyboard for your smartphone? Shoot me now. Ditto “Print At Work” (hint: this only works if you have an office job). If you have the luxury of spare time to make detergent and, um, access to borax and washing soda, good show! You can probably afford detergent instead. If you can make your own beer, you can damn well afford your brew of choice.

I am skeptical of buying medication online; who knows where it’s been? And if I automate payments, not only will I forget I’m paying and inevitably overdraw at the bank, but… what if I want them to stop? Or if someone’s billed me erroneously, per tip 10, “Check Your Bills”? My home has never gotten dirty enough to require specialty grime-cutters, thank you, except for the carpets. That’s kind of inevitable when one has pets. I like cable, thanks, and it’s not prohibitively expensive as long as I don’t want the fancy packages. I haven’t actually got enough of a credit history to get a credit card, so my debit card will do.

I am not swapping over to water-only. I like my beverages to taste like something. Vinegar stinks up the whole damn house and is therefore not my cleaner of choice.

But knowing average prices, that’s sound logic. So is cooking what you can afford. And I am not sure whose homes come without insulation nowadays, so tip 11 is direly misnamed. Tend to your windows and your doors, yes, but you should be plenty insulated otherwise. I love buying my imports from their own stores; the variety is just better there than down a supermarket aisle, even the Pittsford Wegmans supermarket aisle. (Yes, I said it.) Managing your finances? Uh, duh? Finding a cheaper workout than the gym? “Don’t Rent a Modem”?! I thought this was common sense…

And in the Make Do and Mend category, I love the notion of shaving your old woolens with a Bic. If I wore anything that wanted dry cleaning on a regular basis, I’d wear it a few times before I bothered. This probably works because I do prefer to buy quality over quantity. Oldest rule in the book: love your well-made classics. See, here’s where DIY helps. If you learn basic repairs, you can maintain your wardrobe with little fuss.

I suppose some of this list is worthwhile, but a whole lot of it presumes frugality is a hobby or, and this was part of an actual tip, a lifestyle choice. When you can’t fathom that frugal living isn’t a damn choice for a good chunk of the population, you are out of touch.

dear mister president

The system really doesn’t give me much incentive to get out, not in conjunction with the current reality.

Think about it. In order to stay/become insured, I can’t get a job that pays me a living wage, or anywhere near one. So I’m here for the foreseeable future, unless I marry someone who has great insurance. Some future. So I’ll be living off student loans, which pile up PDQ. Great through grad school! Once I get out and get a job, whooo, there goes my entire paycheck.

Just disabled enough that a judge would laugh in my face if I tried for disability. Just healthy enough to be frustrated that I can’t pursue a trade for far less money than a graduate degree.

Something’s gotta give, Mister President, whoever you turn out to be in 2013. Something has to change. I need to be able to move forward without fearing the loss of very necessary medical coverage. Failing that, I need to be able to make a wage that will support me, including my doctors’ bills. (Doctors plural. I will always require more than one.) But the side that wants industry to succeed above all tends not to support such a wage, and the side that supports universal health care generally hasn’t got the balls to propose making it a reality. In fact, right now, both sides claim to want to keep interest rates on student loans down, but God help them if they can figure out how to do that.

Right now, my vote is for the side I perceive as more humanist, more supportive of my continued survival down here in no-income land. But unless that side learns how to fight for what it wants, I’ll be stuck down here for a long time yet.

And a snapshot of recession life:

(From a note to a friend:)

I do, in fact, live with my parents. It’s an irritating catch-22. In order to remain (well, become) insured and healthy, I have to forgo full-time employment. Very few jobs for people with plain old two-year degrees pay a living wage, let alone offer health insurance, so it’s Medicaid/Family Health Plus or the all-but-useless-to-me Healthy NY. Alas, with no cashflow, I’m stuck here. Complicating matters further, I found out just where my body’s limits lie when I pushed myself right into a collapse in fall. One doctor says chronic fatigue syndrome, one says fibromyalgia, and I say “oy vey”.

The Affordable Care Act came in the nick of time for students who were already making smarter decisions about their futures because they knew this was a recession. Up here in the 24-26 age range, it was only in time to offer us a year of grace before we went back to being totally screwed by the economy. Nobody told me in high school that this recession was on its way and I’d better not major in English after all. I am so close to chucking it all and finding a trade school, getting that qualification, and using it to pay for a loftier calling later. It’s beyond frustrating.

not the girl you think i am.

So I guess “mundane” and “stodgy” aren’t as awful as they’re cracked up to be. Also, in winter, nobody’s particularly outré if they live in a cold climate. My missing zing is mostly accounted for.

It’s not wrong to want a more manageable life. It’s not wrong to look around and say “Okay, I don’t want to be living hand-to-mouth or starving for any particular passion.” A lot of the changes I’ve made came about naturally; nobody told me to buck up and be an adult.

Some of those changes were reactive, responses to other changes in the way things were. I graduated from MCC. I lost my insurance through my dad. I got a job to ameliorate both the lack of productivity and the lack of health care.

Once I figured out that reactive changes kind of sucked in the long run — once I’d lost my job — I began to plan active changes. I determined that I would learn to drive, and I did. I am now working on finding a car I can drive off the lot with no debts attached. I am choosing the kind of jobs I want to get, instead of begging everyone and anyone for work that might not suit me. (I’d make the crappiest child care provider, and we all know it. I could, however, handle clerical work.)

I’ve lost a lot of my taste for wildness and irresponsibility. I’m not a radical anymore; I think of practicalities, and how I’ll be able to function as a person if I take a stand. What do my choices mean for me? For my family? I do impact other people’s lives. I can’t just fuck around being an overgrown teenager.

It’s okay to think that’s not a great way to be.

I can make little statements without upsetting any apple carts. I can paint my nails funny colors and experiment with makeup. (Especially now that I know how!) I can pair a funky T-shirt with a serious skirt and heels. I can curse in the kind of company that understands, and kill everyone else with manners and grace. A bit twenties, a bit sixties, a bit now: I am not limited to one influence.

I’m going to make a brilliant writing professor when the time comes.

— Ending, ending, where’s my ending? So much for brilliance —

But I don’t have to be brilliant now! Yes! I mean, no! I mean, sod it, you know exactly what I mean. I’m allowed some confusion in my transition. As long as I can talk about it, I think I’ll be okay.

So that was . . . interesting.

This is, for Eleven’s benefit, me putting down that woman. 😉

Yeah, so apparently Career Exploration was a cover for MCC’s career counseling services instead of, oh, actual career counseling. Dude, that two hours could’ve been useful. At the very least I’d have slept.

I felt as if I didn’t matter. That being twenty-three and a little farther along the exploration road meant they couldn’t help me. For me, then, it was a two-hour infomercial with repeated stories by the two suburbanites at the front of the room (and “suburbanite” is the kindest word I can find at the mo’). Their lecture was so nuclear-family centric that I wondered if they’d heard of any other sort. When they were talking about security, for example, as a job value, they harped on the concept of needing it when one is older and has a family — what if one’s husband should die?

What is so wrong with wanting that security as a single childfree woman?

I could almost hear the “You’ll change your mind!” ringing forth from their twisted little psyches.

They handed out some useful stuff, which I would have liked to get through in that two hours as a job-seeker. That list of adjectives? As someone who struggles with those on a resume, that’s useful. Help me best describe me as I go forward! All that stuff about coping with job loss? Not only was I waiting to talk about my own experiences as a displaced worker, I was also curious about the others’ stories and how they had coped.

At several points, I wanted to get up and either walk out or tell the Verkakte Girls to sit the frak down and let me teach this. No more positive thinking slogans, girls. No more heartwarming family shit. Let’s be real about unemployment. Let’s look at why we’re in this room. Let’s look at where we might’ve gone wrong before so we can not do that again. Let’s set some goals: tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Elephant toes. If you don’t know what careers you want, let me run a quick inventory with you — I’ll take it too; we’re all in this together — maybe a short MBTI, and no rigging it, ’cause I do that myself, so if I have to answer honestly, so do you. Jesus, have these women never gone on Google?

Let’s talk honestly about the good and the bad. Let’s talk about why you’re in jeans and I’m in professional clothes, even though we’re in the same place. Let’s talk about why you’re still expected to mind the kids and be a full-time job seeker, and how you can budget your time accordingly. With only fifteen people in the class (if that), two hours would’ve been plenty.

In ten minutes, I just came up with a more coherent counseling/lesson plan than either of them had… and I’m the one looking for work?

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

That is part of the struggle when you’re unemployed and looking. Unemployed and on sabbatical for my health? Didn’t care. But forced to yield my time to the DOL and then having that time wasted? I might as well have sat with an individual counselor, because my situation was apparently too unique to take into account. It’s probably not, for the record, but until I have a doctor who can tell them all to bugger off — or tell me how to fix me — I’m a little stuck where I am, moving forward with the resources I’ve got.

I did not feel as if they accounted for anything resembling me — or anyone not resembling themselves. That is what angers me. We are all different. We are not all fifty and on our second long-term career. We are twenty-three, and thirty, and forty. We are poly, and queer, and straight but unpartnered. We are overeducated for the market; we are experienced but in desperate need of certifications proving that.

I’m a lost lamb all on my own. Don’t find me just to pitch me out of the flock.