Dress for Success.

On one of my favorite shows,TLC's What Not to Wear, stylist Stacy London often offers this advice to the pathetically dressed make-overees who come to New York to learn the basics of putting on clothes:

"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

It seems simple, but it's smart. During my days at Lucky magazine, I followed Stacy's advice and completely reworked my style of dress in the hopes that it would improve my professional standing. Gone were the khakis and cardigans of my early career days: now it was dresses, heels and pencil skirts.

And it worked! I swear that the confidence that dressing well gave me led me to succeed at work. In the two years that I was there, I went from being copy manager to copy director. And I looked cute doing it. Thank you, Stacy London!

Now, as you may have guessed by the name of my blog, I am unemployed. And I think it's safe to say that if I ran into Stacy on the street these days, she'd think I was an aspiring gym coach.

I made this realization about four weeks ago, as I headed off to a cardio class at my gym. That's what we unemployed people do: we wake up, sip coffee, read the paper, teeter around on the internet searching in vain for employment, then head off to the gym in order to maintain some feeling of productivity.

I digress. The weather had turned unseasonably cold, and I scratched my head at what I should wear. My favorite yoga pants had always been my thing before, but now, well-- they were out of the question. Why? Because they were the main- nay only- staple of my unemployed wardrobe. And I didn't want them to get dirty. Because then, what would I wear tomorrow? Lately, it's not about finding the energy to get dressed for success-- it's really just about finding the will to get dressed.

Every day that's dipped below 65 degrees since May 18, you've probably spotted me in my "unemployment ensemble." Black yoga pants, black tank, gray hooded sweatshirt. Flip flops when it's warm enough, sneakers when it's not. Every day, it's what I wear. I go back and forth between pajamas and comfy clothes. I am one polyester floral pattern away from surrendering to the house dress.

My dressing room is a sad retirement home for adorable things. Once I hit my goal weight and paid down my debt, I had set to work creating the style I always envisioned for myself.

It took years. And God- how I miss wearing it all. This afternoon, I was going through my closet looking for underworn things to give my little cousins at Thanksgiving (part of my new holiday tradition, which helps keep my clutter and shopping guilt to a minimum), I realized just how much I have and don't get to wear. The cute black and gray pinstripe dress I wore with my black boots. Oh, my black boots! How sad they look, like un-walked puppies making sad eyes on the closet floor. My wrap around cardigans, my black maryjane heels. Wide belts, sparkly accessories-- it's a cruel world that won't let you accessorize with sweats.

The last time I tried to wear heels, my feet hurt after two hours. They'd forgotten what it felt like to be dressed up, and it was as if they've given up. I can't say I blame them.

One of my best friends, Shanna, has an event company that does amazing work styling weddings, showers, all types of parties (SwoonEvents.com)... and they're hosting a charity "Wear It Again" party in the coming year. Brides will get to wear their wedding dresses one more time, sip cocktails and socialize, all for a good cause.

I'm thinking I should do the same. Invite all of my unemployed friends over and give them a reason to get dressed. Put on a tie and jacket, laid-off financiers; Put on some make-up, out-of-work marketers. Let's get together for some much-missed water-cooler talk about which Biggest Loser got sent home last night, and debate about where we should go to lunch.

Maybe it would make us feel normal again. Give us a reason to get up before noon. Make us feel less like we've got "reject" stamped on our heads. Remind us what a gift it was to feel needed everyday. To feel professionally dignified and respected.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe we'd just get blisters on our feet.

Hope Springs Eternal

Now is the winter of our discontent. It seems to have come early this year, no?

Actually, that's not a correct usage at all. What Shakespeare meant when he wrote that in Richard III was not that it was winter and we were bummed, suffering under the blue cloud of our collective seasonal affective disorder-- but rather that our sadness was ending. Winter is the time when things die-- in this case discontentment-- and spring brings renewal. Hope. Of course what I mean is that a.) it's unseasonably freaking cold for October and b.) the cold gloominess suits my mood and c.) we never had a damn summer, we had monsoon season, so of course I am discontented.

Ah, hope. It's been a catchy theme this year, hasn't it? Barack Obama showed up with a bucket load of it when we were all drowning in such despair that the only choice that seemed at all reasonable was to hitch our wagons to his rousing optimism. And trust me-- I am an optimist. I really believe I have to be, because I am capable of such immense disappointment that clearly I must be hopeful in order to get so shockingly let down time and time again. I've made an art form out of getting my hopes up, then dashed. Our president talked about the "audacity of hope." I hear that, for sure. Andy Dufresne called it "the best of things."


Lately I've come to think that hope is a bitch.

It's like a drug that we're addicted to- the more desperate we get, the more we hope. Think about the hope a gambling addict puts into their lives-- just one big win can solve all their problems. They'll even bet the mortgage on it. Think about the heroin addict or alcoholic who, having tasted that high once, chases after it repeatedly hoping in vain to get that same feeling again, no matter what damage it brings to them.

So it is with Americans these days. Nearly as soon as this recession started, people were predicting the end of it. "We're pulling out of the economic downslide!" The spin doctors insisted hopefully as families lost their homes and retirees found out they had to work until the day they died. If they could find a job, that is. "Job losses are down!" They cried. Well, frankly that's what happens when there's no one else left to lay off. Everyone reading this knows at least one person-- besides me-- who has lost their job, I am sure of it. I dare you to tell them that unemployment is down.

In a way, the false reports of an economic recovery were strategy. The government needed us to believe that things were better in order to get us to stop holding on to every penny and go shopping, dammit. Because we were all saving our money, we were crippling the economy, and they needed us to start spending again to get things moving-- as if going to the mall was like fiscal Metamucil. It's sort of how the Gap uses "vanity sizing," which means they put a size 10 label on size 12 pants, so that you feel skinnier and better about yourself and then boom-- only shop at the Gap. The economy needs us to feel skinny in order to thrive.

They need us to kid ourselves. Because there is no room for realism in optimism.

Just last week, my former employer Conde Nast closed three magazines-- Gourmet, Cookie and Modern Bride. But wait-- analysts tell me the bloodletting is over! Didn't anyone tell SI Newhouse? And after you talk to SI, maybe mention it to my Facebook page, where a number of unemployed friends have turned status updates into a virtual soup line. "Anyone need a freelance writer? Will work for Tasti-D-Lite," read one recent posting. Okay, that was mine, and I would work for ice cream. But the sentiment is there-- it's still ugly in the job market, and there's blood all over the newsfeed.

So here we are, winter once again. Just when we didn't need it most.

I respect Barack, and I voted for him (well, I thought I did, then later found out that the Board of Elections made an error and my vote didn't count! Boo!), but it's getting hard to hold out hope. With each job I go out for, with each dollar I work harder to hold on to I get a little more desperate. I had been hoping this would all work itself out. Look at where that got me.

In reality, it's not hope that will fix things, it's time. In time, this will pass. In time, America will be thriving again. Someday, I hope soon, I'll have a fulfilling job that I love. Maybe it's the optimist in me, or maybe it's the realist, or maybe I'm becoming a pessimist just enough to make me optimistic, because I don't think things can get much worse. Maybe I've been listening to too much Howard Jones lately, but I kind of feel like... well, things can only get better.

No money, no job, and no idea where my life will be six months from now-- it seems like hope is all I've got. Now let's hope it's enough.

The Way We Were

I’m a little cost sensitive these days.

This happens when you lose your job. From my experience, this is the sequence of events, in this order: You go into shock, you go to sleep, you wake up, you panic, you become aware of the cost of everything, you start comparing prices on items you buy, you start to lament that living life is too expensive.

“Wait—two ply toilet paper is 3 cents more than one ply. Clearly I have got to start stealing t.p. from public restrooms.”

Par for the course when you have no job.

That is why the experience of an unemployed international traveler is absolutely revelatory. You would not believe how ripped off we’re getting—only you’re too employed to notice.

This week, John and I set course for Canada to celebrate his 30th birthday with his family and friends. We went via the cheapest way possible: We got a ride from my brother Owen at 5am to the airport—our flight wasn’t until 8:50, but Owen had to get to work, and we saved $40 by not taking a car. The two hours we sat saved us cash, cause we’re poor.

Next, we flew to Buffalo on a puddle jumper, which of course brought back my fat-kid paranoia that I’d have to weigh in, the way they do it on small planes to make sure it’s balanced. Luckily, there was no scale, so no tears.

Finally, we rented the cheapest car possible, a Ford Focus, in Buffalo, and drove the 3 hours to Toronto. Now we have a rental car for a week, all cheaper than what it would have cost to fly directly to Toronto.

So sure—that’s cheaply done. But here’s where I get angry.

Delta charged us $15 each to check one bag, and an additional $5 each for not checking in online. How can we check-in online when we’re not even in yet?

Remember last year, when gas was really high and airlines started charging for “extra” baggage? Well, now, apparently they’re just charging for baggage.

And you HAVE to check bags now. I travel light enough that I could carry on—but I wear contact lenses, so the saline solution I have to bring can’t be carried on. So no matter what, these a-holes are securing an extra $20 from me, and if I had a second bag it would have been—wait for it—an extra $25 per additional bag.

All because of the cost of gas, which we were paying for since the dawn of air travel—I mean—what is the ticket covering? The seat and the meal they don’t even serve anymore? Who paid for fuel before?

Does it matter that gas prices are down? No. They’re taking advantage of “circumstances” to make greedy, forever-changes. And it got me thinking—when else has this happened?

Ever hear one of those travel commercials, where they talk about awesome deals like, “Fly to London for $1!” then say quickly at the end “Taxes, applicable charges and 9/11 security fee not included.”

Um- isn’t our safety included in the cost? Wasn’t it on 9/10/01? Just because you invoke the phrase “9/11,” are we supposed to just accept that?

And really—what security are we paying for? That disgruntled, fat, bitter TSA guard who makes us take our shoes off and put them in the gray bin? Let me be the one to say it- they’re not going to sneak in a shoe bomb again, so let’s give that one up. These crazy lunatics are one step ahead of us on bombing technology- they’ll probably have their teeth made of bombs. Making my socks despicably filthy isn’t keeping me “safe,” and we all know it.

Why are we paying to be extra secure, when we’re not really any safer, and the fact is they should have been keeping us safe all along? Does the fact that we didn’t drop an extra $50 a ticket before September 11, 2001 justify the fact that they let those hijackers on the plane with box cutters? Stop using my grief and fear to take advantage of me, okay? That’s Rudy Guiliani’s job.

Somewhere in the middle of Buffalo it occurred to me that this is the new reality of travel—and that the same thing has happened with the job market. Employers are taking advantage of the recession and the nation’s economy to cut costs, make less employees do more work for less money and yes, you guessed it, be grateful just to have their jobs, which are precariously placed under the ever swinging axe of budget cuts.

Six months before I was laid off, the brilliant and talented young copywriter who reported to me—we’ll call her Laura—lost her job in the first round of layoffs. I had no idea it was coming, which is strange given that she reported to me, but that’s a topic for another blog. As a result, I had to take on her job—and let me tell you, she did a lot, and she worked hard. It was no small task. I missed her desperately but I never complained- I worked longer hours with a smile on my face, rarely took lunch, and became anxious to prove my worth to my employers and keep my job safe. I was doing two jobs for the price of one, and the refrain in my head was always “Just be glad you still have a job.” Pathetic.

They stopped matching our 401K, our healthcare changed to a plan so crappy that I had a $75 copayment—COPAYMENT—for one of my medicines, and little by little our quality of life at work was tweaked until it was barely livable.

When I was laid off in May, my coworkers took on my sizable workload as well as Laura’s. As a result, they are doing three peoples’ jobs for the price of one. And chances are that during the late hours that they stay at work they wonder if it’s fair-- a thought that's quickly replaced with a reminder that they should smile, play the hand they’ve been dealt without complaint—and be grateful just to have a job.

How much of the recession can really be blamed? How many employers are adopting their business structure to match what the airlines have done? Make the b.s. changes when people are patient and understand that this is “temporary,” then never go back to the way it was.

Do I even want to ever be a copywriter again? To go back into an industry that would take advantage of a crappy situation to, well, profit frankly in the long run—even if it completely decimates my life, despite years of loyalty? If the economy turns around tomorrow, will that magazine ever "fully" staff up again, or will my former coworkers continue to absorb the jobs of the people who lost theirs?

The answer, frankly, is no. I don't want to be a copywriter again- not full time, and not at a magazine. This recession has done nothing except reinforce something I already knew: in corporate America, you’re expected to show incredible loyalty to your job, but when the chips are down it will never be loyal to you. Like the airlines, they'll never travel back to "normal." It is what it is—and it is the way it will always be.