Everyone I knew seemed to be landing jobs, getting paid, and doing lots of fun and interesting things with their paychecks. I, on the other hand, was going on one unsuccessful job interview after another and was totally broke. My parents had laid down hard-and-fast ground rules when I moved back in, and those rules did not include money for fun or interesting things. “We will provide a roof over your head and food on the table, but we are done subsidizing your life,” they told me. Their parents hadn’t given them a cent after college, and, as they loved to remind me, they’d also had student loans to pay off.
Just as the rejection was beginning to really take hold on my psyche, I stumbled onto an instant ego-booster while browsing through Bloomingdale’s. Often, to cheer myself up after interviews, I’ll get off the subway at 59th Street and exit into the basement of the store. Sometimes I’ll try a new perfume; sometimes I’ll get a free makeover, though not totally free, since I pay the price in guilt for not making a purchase. One day back in September when I was dressed in an interview suit with a particularly good makeup job, I bumped into an old Dalton classmate, Bitsy Bouvier. She too was dressed in a suit and looking pretty fabulous. She was always a step behind me at Dalton and went to a little Ivy—Hamilton, I believe. She squealed when she saw me as if we’d met crossing the Ponte Vecchio, as opposed to in the department store we’d both been frequenting since we could walk. “Sophie, I love your hair! You look so…cool!”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. If she only knew my new hairstyle was a DIY special. The week before, my mother had caught me staring at myself in the mirror, forlorn. She’s more of a softy than my dad, and sometimes I play on it. So when she asked me what was wrong, I saw an opportunity.
“It’s my hair, Mom—I don’t know what to do with it. You know I’ve been trying so hard to get a job and I can’t even afford to get my hair straightened anymore.” I welled up—it’s a talent of mine, I can do it on cue. She had to understand, she had the same hair. Although she wears hers like some kind of badge of honor. She took my hand and led me to her bedroom. Oh, good, she’s going to give me a little cash, I thought. Cash would be nontraceable; my father would never know. She’d done the same thing two weeks earlier when I needed new interview shoes. But this time she sat me down in front of the mirror and pulled out a pair of barber’s shears.
“No way, Mom!” I immediately protested.
“Embrace it,” she said. “You’re not going to want to spend half your salary on your hair when you get a job, either!” She added, “Come on, I’ll make you look cool.” We both laughed. Cool has never been a word you would use to describe me. Practical, driven, competitive, and, more recently, mediocre, lost, and unemployable—but never cool.
“What the hell,” I said, relenting. “I’ll wear it ironically.” According to Bitsy Bouvier’s compliment, it was working for me.
“How are you? What have you been up to?” she asked, doubtless expecting to hear a success story, since I’d been one of the stars of our high school class.
“Keeping it real,” I responded with a smile. What I should have said was keeping it real cheap.
“Where are you working?” And there it was, the question I had come to dread.
“You look fabulous—where are you working?” I countered.
“Goldman Sachs!” Goldman Sachs? She didn’t even go to an Ivy League school! Maybe I should have gone to a little Ivy—less pressure and more room to flourish. I was beginning to question every decision I’d ever made.
“That’s great,” I said, adding a bit viciously, “I’m surprised they let you out of the office at all, let alone to traipse through Bloomingdale’s at five-thirty on a weekday!”
She laughed. “I’m treating myself to a new dress—I’m going to the ballet tonight with my boyfriend and his parents.”
A job and a boyfriend, with parents who attended the ballet? I nearly imploded from jealousy. But instead I lied. “That’s funny. I’m here to buy a new bathing suit, because I’m going to the Ocean Club next weekend with my boyfriend and his parents!”
She looked sincerely happy for me. God, I’m awful. She whipped out her phone to take a selfie of us. I leaned in as she put her arm around my shoulder. Snap.
“I’ll Instagram it! What should the caption be? Got it! #TwoDaltonWorkingGirls. So cute—I’ll tag you. Where did you say you work again?”
“Sotheby’s,” I answered, as quickly as if she had asked my shoe size.
She pecked away on her phone: #Dreamjobs #Sothebys #GoldmanSachs.
And that’s how it began.
With each new like on Instagram I felt less like a loser and more like the twentysomething success with a great boyfriend and a job at Sotheby’s that I’d told Bitsy I was. I checked Instagram all night, and by the time Bitsy Bouvier was watching the last plié at Lincoln Center, the photo had 179 likes. One hundred and seventy-nine people thought I looked fabulous—possibly even cool—and had a dream job at Sotheby’s!
I was instantly addicted.
By the next morning people were on to liking the hot matchachino that Bitsy had for breakfast and I found myself feeling like a total loser again. I didn’t even know what a matchachino was.