If ever you questioned my resolve, how I’m holding myself up in a time of unemployment, part-time jobs, low income, I assure you I have my grey times. Last week I had two bowls of pho (my comfort food of choice). I’ve put down a couple of bucks at gas stations for Cup Noodles. On the way home from work tonight I went through the drive-thru and clicked on South Park to accompany my Chicken McNuggets and fries.

The other day I was pulling my laundry from the dryer, a very mundane task, and suddenly a wave of “I am a lone female” thoughts streamed through my head.

I am a woman. I get paranoid that male laundromat visitors might see my thongs when I pull them out of the pile. I only wear them because they make my ass look good without leaving telltale pantylines. I don’t wear them to attract lingering eyes that like to hover around belts or low-rise hems where belts should be. I’m pulling them out of the dryer because I need them clean, not because I want anyone to notice the lacy detail of the Costco-bought underwear. ATTN: Girls On A Budget: Six in a pack!

I’m a girl. I push my face as close as I possibly can to my bathroom mirror so that I can focus on the blackheads on my nose, target the ones that might be poppable, even though my aesthetician friend tells me not to. But we all do it, all girls. I obsess over the imperfections of my skin, the split ends of my hair. I revel in the way my hair fades in color at the ends but also becomes increasingly crispier the farther down I run my fingers.

I feel human. I’m self-conscious. I second guess my efforts and wonder what I’m headed toward. It’s humbling and it’s an open door all at the same time.

I read articles about the non-recession recession. About a lack of jobs. About the statistic I’ve joined in being (somewhat of) a professional who has joined the “working class.” Who may be left there (here) indefinitely.

I’ve just clicked off Ryan Seacrest’s face because the Angelina Jolie E! True Hollywood Story has ended. (First time I’ve watched E! in years.) I threw away my McDonald’s bag and I wonder why I’m here. What I’m doing and what’s next. What’s the point of being 24 and living on your own if you’re 24 and making rent depends on a part-time job.

I’m not in high school and I’m working a part-time job. It is my second consecutive part-time job in months, and though I was overqualified for my first and I love the culture of my second (current), the fact is I’m more of a 9-to-5 person. I don’t see myself as corporate. I have a personal goal to always work at a company where I will never need to buy “work clothes.” But I’m not a lifetime retail worker. I love the type of people I work with, but I do not want to be “stuck” here. There will come days where I will feel like I have to fend off the feeling of being stuck.

The bags under my eyes will droop, redness will creep in from the inevitable crows’ feet on my face, and I will just want to “put my feet up.”

I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I sense change on the horizon. I am destined for bigger and better things. I have been the workaholic. I have stressed myself to illness. I’ve put myself through 40 straight days of work before, and look where it’s gotten me…? But I suppose it’s what I get, for being so privileged before and comfortable and taking things for granted. What more should a once-spoiled child expect?

It’s the indefiniteness of it all that kills me.