Wednesday I had an interview. I answered all the questions asked of me expertly. Asked the interviewer some pretty good questions as well. Actually had stumped her with a few of them. Came across that I was an authority on how to raise funds in this challenging economy. And during said interview, I felt as if everything went quite well. I never hesitated on my answers, smiled, thanked the person for their time. The interviewer dutifully wrote my responses down, and a half-hour later we ended our Zoomer.

I took a deep breath, sat back in my chair and stared at the wall for a few. Then the mental questioning began. Just exactly how did it go? Did they like me? Or is someone else far better than me? How could I have answered that question better? Did I sound like an idiot?

Friday I typed up and sent off what seemed to be the thousandth cover letter. They all riff on the same qualifications that I have, just tweaked a little to refine them for the job I’m applying to. After staring at that same paragraph forever, about how much money I’ve raised or how I’ve cross-collaborated with team members in different departments or any such elaboration on my qualifications, my mind melted. Got a cup of tea, breathed for a moment, then finished said letter. Uploaded it and sent off the online application to the ATS portal that scanned all applicants for keywords. Expected mine to be rejected.

Then I cried.

These days, I’m that person who, despite showing great enthusiasm, never gets picked. And will I ever?

Two years ago I lost my job. Within six weeks I had a new one. Jobs were plenty and there wasn’t an issue finding another. Now, there are hardly any to choose from, and hundreds apply even before I’ve had a chance to see the listing. I’m not alone. There are many of us.

It’s exhausting. For all of us.

I feel so beat up and useless sometimes. I’ve had some interviews that went incredibly well. Never hear from the organization again. I’ve stopped getting my hopes up. Though I smile and answer questions authoritatively, nothing ever comes of my efforts. There was a job I was sure I was getting, after several rounds of interviews. In the end, they picked someone else.

Of course.

The Department of Labor requires that us jobless folks apply to at least three positions a week. I apply to at least five or six. Sometimes seven, eight, nine. It doesn’t matter.

I don’t have the strength to go back into retail. I hardly had it when I was there. The work was backbreaking, wrecked my feet and made my varicose veins throb mercilessly. Though management treated me well, customers generally made my life a living hell. I worked weird hours and rarely had two consecutive days off. Every weekend was booked. I barely saw my son.

I’d even be a receptionist if someone would take me on. One look at my resume and they tell me I’ve got too much experience, I’d be bored, not a good fit, etc. The truth is, I’d do it because I need the money. Unemployment barely covers my expenses, and I have two months left on it.

Here I am, feeling washed up and worn out. This isn’t the way it should be at this stage of my life. I should be thinking about retirement. Instead, I’m thinking about utter ruin.

Meanwhile, my ex lives on the opposite coast, with his beautiful, successful girlfriend, drives an expensive car and lives a great life. I struggle even with the small amount of money he gives me each month.

Yet somehow, I go on. I click on jobs that are even remotely plausible for my experience.

And hope that maybe this time, they’ll pick me.