An overly tanned man in his fifties with a terminal case of halitosis and the charming verbal tick of ending EVERY sentence with “Mmmkay” just passed judgment on me. He judged my hair, my clothes, my demeanor, my intellectual prowess. And why was I allowing this taut orange man to appraise me? Because he was interviewing me for a job. I had the honor of prancing around like a show pony for his viewing pleasure so that he could determine if I was worthy of making the paltry $9 an hour he’s offering. I feel dirty.

And this wasn’t my first show of the day, ohh no no, in fact it was my fifth. I watched as they fast forwarded over the efforts I’ve invested since 1995 and proceeded to tell me I was “underqualified”, “overqualified”, “not the right fit for the team”, “PERFECT…for some other nebulous position as yet to be determined or even created…or not” and, of course, that they’d “Call”. It’s like I walked into a Reality Bites reenactment and, if I did, where the hell is my brooding, sexy, Ethan Hawke type to kiss the pain away and give me the definition of Irony?

As the last $87 dollars on earth that exists in my name luxuriates at WaMu, I can’t help but wonder…how did I get here?

When I was given a diploma, how was I not imbued with the tools to do things like create a resume, file my own taxes, or change a tire? Wasn’t the 100K they got out of me worth something? How have I survived eight years in a post collegiate world with food on my table, gas in the tank, and a roof over my head but no redeemable skill according to the five juries I faced today?

And it’s not just me, Mmmkay. There is a whole new generation of lost souls who didn’t have the motivation of Reaganomics to drive them into the US work force. Where are we supposed to go when there’s no one waiting to greet us with open arms and a 401K? Armed with a list of things we’re all craving but might never achieve; a house, a paid off car, health insurance, a gas tank filled all the way to the tippy tippy top, not just to where it stops once you’ve put in $30 bucks, the streets are teeming with the children of the 80’s unable to surpass the hardship tax bracket. From grammar school to college, my education has cost over a quarter million dollars and it earned me a B.A. from Time Magazine’s College of the Year (Fight on!) yet, somehow, I’m now faced with the option of moving home to live with Mommy and Daddy in my 29th year or enslaving myself to the man with pooh breath who believes forty nine dollars a day (after taxes) is far beyond what I’m worth. Me and my bionic, quarter million dollar brain are without value, merit or necessity. Thank you…but no thanks. Insert door slam here. But I shouldn’t get too down, I may have gotten a waitressing job at Crazy Girl’s. My father will be so proud. Ahhh, the American Dream 2008. Mmmmkay!!!