Invisible in the Numbers
The government will release new labor statistics this week. But here’s the truth: I won’t be counted.
On paper, I’m employed. In reality, I’m underemployed, temporary, and hanging on by a thread. My current gig as a holiday liquor stockman ends January 1st. Minimum wage. Seasonal. Disposable.
So when the numbers come out, they won’t tell my story—or the story of countless others like me.
I DO NOT EXIST.
Life in the Liquor Store
Funny thing is, the liquor store feels like the happiest place on earth. The employees smile, the customers smile, even the bottles seem to sparkle as I line them up perfectly on the shelves.
My previous post took me to the Liquor Store: FULL CIRCLE — From Corporate America to Stockboy Swagger
Maybe it’s my wife’s influence—she stages our home so precisely that you can’t sit on the sofa without disturbing the karate‑chopped pillows. I catch myself doing the same thing with beer cases and whiskey bottles, aligning them so neatly that I almost don’t want anyone to buy them.
But I digress.
Job Searching: A Bad Relationship
Looking for work feels like dating gone wrong.
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
I recently spent over a month in what felt like a relationship with a company. Third‑party recruiters, company recruiters, multiple onsite and video interviews, endless assessments—nine tests in total (some timed). I made it to the fourth round.
The recruiters cheered me on, full of pep talks and promises. Was it authentic? Probably not. But I let myself believe it. I poured everything into preparing, showing up professional, authentic, and ready. I even bought a new shirt for that fourth interview, convinced the offer was coming.
The Loyalty I Was Chasing
I wanted this company not just because I need a job, but because I heard they were loyal to their employees. That mattered to me.
I’ve spent years giving loyalty to organizations that treated me like a number—skipping vacations, working late, treating the company like it was my own. And still, I was disposable.
Was it my age? My salary? Something else? I’ll never know.
The Swipe Left
After all that effort, all I got was an automated rejection email.
I had already planned my commute, picked out new office clothes, and imagined the grind ahead. And then—nothing.
Like Tinder, the company swiped left.
Tinder
Bye‑bye, Miss American Pie.
Moving On
The rejection stung. It still does.
I even wrote a personal letter to the owner, expressing regret that I wouldn’t be part of something special. I’ve never done that before. I didn’t get a response, but didn’t expect one either.
But here’s the thing: I keep showing up. Every day.
This blog is my way of moving forward. My way of saying I exist—even if the statistics don’t count me.
Rock on.