I Lost the Capitalist Games (And I'm Kinda OK with That)
People, it turns out, are the only currency that really matters.
“So, what was it about this role that made you apply?”
I’m seated across from six panelists, all of them smiling politely, hands folded in front of them. Before them sits a printed list of questions they’ll ask each applicant. They keep notes as I speak. The fiftysomething woman who asked the question smiles at me with polite anticipation.
I sigh. Audibly. Maybe framing it as a sort of cleansing breath. Doing a little grounding and centering. This is the Left Coast, after all. We’re a bunch of hippies. We ground and center.
I’m gonna go for it. What the hell.
“I could tell you the carefully curated version,” I say, “But I’m actually just going to tell the truth. I’m here because I need a job and my skills line up with what you’re looking for. It’s as simple as that.”
The director, who’d be my boss, sits at the end of the table. From everything I’ve seen, he’s an affable, authentic guy.
“I appreciate your honesty,” he says. “But wasn’t there something that clicked for you and made you think, ‘I want to work there’?”
They want to hear that I’m intrigued by what they’re doing. That I’ve studied the company and that their mission resonates with me. All good candidates for employment must adhere to the script. If you want the job, you blow smoke up the company’s ass. It’s a time-honored, venerated process.
And it’s bullshit.
When my entire team was laid off in February of 2024, I felt the usual anxiety. What would the job market be like? Would my next job be as toxic and awful as this one was? Would the new normal be better or worse than the present normal?
I couldn’t see how it could possibly be worse. My last employer had 2.3 stars on Glassdoor for reasons.
And so, along with the anxiety came a profound relief. I was free from the hellhole that I’d relied on for my almost-six-figure income. And now I was also free to find a new, improved hellhole.
I told myself I’d be picky. I’d look for work that felt purposeful rather than something where I had to perform loyalty to earn a paycheck. But when the first three months of my job search yielded rejection after rejection with zero interviews, and the only action I got was from janky recruiters, I decided to cast a wider net.
I applied for state jobs and was told, after multiple interviews, that I lacked public sector experience. I applied for admin jobs and was told I had too much experience.
In other words, I was both underqualified and overqualified, depending on who was rejecting me.
I felt like screaming, “But all I need is work! I’m not exactly climbing the corporate ladder anymore; I just want an income!”
58 years old. Female. Fully loaded with a lifetime of skills and accomplishments.
Unwanted. Obsolete.
Now, in that meeting room, I look at the gently smiling director, scan the rest of the panelists, and offer a weary smile.
I’m done. These people don’t realize it, but I’ve suddenly reached a critical juncture in my life as a tiny cog in the capitalist machine: I no longer give a fuck.
I’m tasked with answering the director’s question. Isn’t there something about this role that speaks to me? Something that “lights me up”?
I shake my head and shrug. “I know that’s not what you want to hear,” I say, “But it’s real. I’ve been at this job search for almost a year. I’ve done all the requisite ‘homework’ on the companies I apply to. I’ve said all the right things in interviews. I’ve been reading from the approved script. And it’s gotten me nowhere. And I realize now that it’s all just …”
The panelists smile uncomfortable smiles.
“It’s bullshit,” I say. “Isn’t it? I mean, it’s all so … fake. Because I can try to convince you that I’m here because this work feels purposeful or I’m excited about where the company’s headed, but if I’m honest with myself, and with you, well …”
A couple of the panelists give subtle nods, but most toe the company line, chins raised with indignation. How dare I suggest that their venerated work is simply a means to a paycheck?
I don’t get the job. But the director sends me a personal email saying that he hopes I’ll keep an eye out for future opportunities with the company, because he believes there’s a place for me there.
A few months later …
I’ve designed myself a website and hung out a shingle as a marketer who specializes in website design and messaging. I decide my goal will be to help the little people make a go of things in this ruthless economy.
I don’t want to make myself rich. I just want to have enough, and to help others have enough, too. I want to offer my skills with integrity.
I’ve work with some incredible clients. I’ve built websites for an autistic peer coach, a gender-affirming coach, and even a bucket drumming group that lends “sonic energy” to protests.
But the marketing business is feast or famine, and I no longer have the stomach for promoting myself endlessly on social media or, gods forbid, pitching to get clients. I’m not a hustler. Never have been.
Over a year of job hunting cost me my pride, my dignity, and almost my home.
But I fired up a GoFundMe (which is still active just in case) and my friends, family, and community came through for me.
We’re all we’ve got, aren’t we? This community of little people just trying to survive?
One member of my tribe, someone I know through the choir I’ve belonged to since I moved to my chosen hometown in 2015, went above and beyond for me in a way I’ll never forget. Her thoughtfulness and willingness to help resulted in part-time work with a local religious community.
I’m agnostic. I have been since George Carlin talked about The Big Electron in the 90s and it made more sense to me than the “invisible man in the sky” I’d been told to believe in. (I call my anti-religion Carlinian Paganism. You’re welcome.)
But this group? They don’t lean into dogma. They’re about asking questions, not dictating answers. They’re progressive, peaceful, deeply involved in social justice.
And I make just enough there to (almost) pay my mortgage each month.
The rest? One of my adult kids lives with me, pays rent, and contributes in other ways. (I raised ‘em right, I guess!) I scrape together what I can from the occasional marketing client, and … well, there’s this Substack, now.
It’s not enough.
But it’s also kind of enough.
And I am content.