“It’s $2.13 an hour plus tips. $7 an hour when you’re working the bar. Plus, you don’t have to fold napkins and silverware. The job’s yours, if you want it.”
I nodded quickly.
“Yes, I do,” I said, rising from my seat. The woman interviewing me smiled crookedly, told me to wear all black, and said I could start on Tuesday.
It wasn’t the job of my dreams. I had just turned 27, gone through a devastating breakup, was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and moved from my one-bedroom apartment in New York City to my grandfather’s basement in a town 10 miles south of Atlanta. I’d quit my high-profile nonprofit job because I couldn’t keep up with the stress and traded it in to serve ramen in a shopping mall.
I had a master’s degree, years of experience, and still couldn’t find anything else. Like the “zillennials” I kept reading about online, I was both overqualified and underemployed. I was a walking LinkedIn paradox in an apron and non-slip shoes.
