What happens when a generation raised with a “you can be whatever you want to be” ethos meets the worst job market in years?
A couple nights ago, I stumbled across a cache of rejection letters – possibly one of the largest deposits of rejection letters recorded in human history. They were all addressed to me.
A few weeks ago, I was visiting New York City, standing in the top floor of The Whitney, staring at the museum’s giant burning candle of Julian Schnabel, when God spoke to me.
I moved to New Zealand from the US in the usual, time-honored fashion. First, I got rejected from every graduate school I’d applied to. Then I pulled out a calendar and contemplated spending another year in my soul-killing, $10-an-hour receptionist job. Then I started crying.
I met my husband at a TGI Friday’s. You might not think that novelty license plates and mozzarella cheese sticks are the stuff romantic dreams are made of. But within a few days, I was wearing an engagement ring.
The white-haired old guy who inspired me to rush home and write out a five-figure check was not an investment advisor or a lifestyle-design guru. I never even learned his name. We only met because I happened to be sitting in the café car of a Washington DC-bound Amtrak when he got on board. And started drinking.