Can you lift that box and if not, what are you doing here?

Today has not been a red letter day. First, seeing that I was in need of a job I decided to apply to waitress locally. Yet I soon got a call and they asked if I could do office work. Then when I showed up to do office work, the rotund proprietor asked behind his messy desk: "How much can you lift?" Earlier, he had asked what I had been doing in England ("studying") and then asked if I had made any money writing or if it was (then he laughed) just, you know, a hobby.
I left that interview thankful that at least I had a real job interview on Thursday, for a reporting position in New York. I had walked by the Nissan dealership and spoken to the young salesperson. "I won't buy a car til I get a job. This is my third interview so I feel I will probably get it."
Then I got on to the computer just now and had received an e-mail from HR: "Sorry, Laurie, but Hector (not his real name) has decided to hire internally. We will retain your resume. Keep checking the website."
Pardon me if I want to take a minute to check my pulse and make sure I am still breathing.
I graduated with merit from King's College London in January. I did this just months after losing my beloved mother unexpectedly in August. It was a crushing departure from my trajectory, yet I somehow managed to get back to my dissertation, finish it and excel. I had wanted to work in London (desperately) but spent most of my time wandering Hyde Park or Embankment remembering all the adorable things my Southern mama had shared with me while I was away studying. I ran out of time, frankly, and the visa was set to expire. So there I went, back to America January 28th, cat in tow.
Despite an older friend's warning that the job market would not be welcoming to me (not-so-subtle-hint, because I'm a bit older), I scoffed. I don't think of myself as anything but young. I haven't married; don't have a mortgage; never had a baby. The only thing old about me is my physical being, but apparently that's what matters. I do fully believe I am being passed over because of my age. Maybe not this particular job (how would I know?), but probably the other one - why else would the jolly old proprietor try to push me out of site from the dining room, into some dismal position lifting bags of salt or whatever the hell he was thinking about?
I know what you are saying: you are as young as you feel! Yes, I wish that were true! I do feel pretty young, despite a few health issues. I walk all over the place, watch Family Guy, drink Wendy's frosties, eat PB&Js and make funny faces at my doctor when she tells me I need some scary test. She: "You're not a child anymore!" My internal monologue: 'That's news to me.'
It is ironic that just this morning I read that 'Reality Bites' is the seminal film of a generation, the one just after mine. The movie is about all these young people floundering in sad little retail jobs with puffed up degrees. The difference between they and moi is obvious: I have a 57-year-old chin. Even a little bit of a Mitch McConnell turkey neck. Granted, some of it is full of thyroid nodules, this I know. But I am not skinny anymore. I don't really want to be skinny, frankly. I am just telling you that muscle tone changes as one ages.
I didn't really want either of these jobs, especially the first one. And as they say, interviews are practice. I just hope that the world with its judgmental eyes and all the men with their misogynistic need to hire young women they can gawk at won't overpower the world I desire: the world that values how hard I worked to persevere and earn a Master of Arts degree from the 37th best university in the world.

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