Post-grad summer was a mix of iced coffee and existential dread. I applied for 72 jobs and got two interviews. One was a pyramid scheme disguised as a “creative marketing collective,” and the other wanted me to “embody the brand voice of mayonnaise.”
My résumé boasted:
- “Published in campus literary magazine”
- “Proficient in passive-aggressive emailing”
- “Strong aesthetic instincts”
My bank account, however, showed a mere $48.32.
Back at home in my childhood bedroom, with ballerina wallpaper and a sense of shame, my mom would knock on my door every morning at 9 a.m., asking, “Any updates on your situation?”
“Yes,” I once replied. “I’ve accepted my fate as a misunderstood genius.”
She countered, “Walmart’s hiring.”
One afternoon, while scrolling through Indeed with the enthusiasm of reading food poisoning symptoms, I stumbled upon a listing: “Public Service Career. Benefits. Stability. No experience required.” I clicked. It was the police department.
I laughed out loud, alone. “Me? A cop?” I whispered, wearing mismatched pajamas and an old Marlon Brando shirt. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense:
- Full-time.
- Health insurance.
- The world was ending anyway.
The interview was surreal. A man in uniform asked, “Why do you want to join law enforcement?”
“Because no one else is hiring me,” I replied.
He laughed. I didn’t.
A week later, I received the acceptance email. Subject line: WELCOME TO THE FORCE. No exclamation mark. Just dread.
I closed my laptop, stared into the abyss of my cold cup of coffee, and muttered, “Well, Sarah… this is not Vogue.”
The academy was a blur of tactical drills, awkward uniforms, and the realization that no one there had read Virginia Woolf.
