Six months after the end of the world

I realized the other day that it has been six months since I was laid off from my job as a newspaper reporter. Six months since one of my greatest fears came true. It already feels like an eternity ago that I was walking out of the newsroom with 11 years worth of detritus in a cardboard box, blinking back tears and wondering what was next. I had thought newspaper work was my life’s calling. I was once the promising young reporter who was going places, on the way up, winning awards and thinking the future was boundless. And then, there I was, signing up for unemployment.

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Summer vacation

My creativity seems to have stalled out right around the time the temperature went up to unbearable and decided to stay there indefinitely. I have become one of those people who spends her days huddling in air conditioning, emerging only to go to the pool. I never wanted to be that person, who lets the heat and mosquitoes defeat her, who refuses her daughter’s requests to go to the park, who won’t sit on the porch, who goes everywhere with the car windows rolled up and the air conditioning blasting. But here I am, in my comfy comfy air conditioning.

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