I haven’t had a summer off since 2001. That was the summer we moved to DC from Texas in the month of June with no prospect for jobs, no apartment and no money. I’d left behind the hourly pay that I earned at a small-scale publishing desk job and some moonlighting at my favorite job ever: greeter and folder at the Gap.
But it was DC, a land of opportunity. We figured we’d have jobs in no time.
With a parental co-signature, we ended up renting in an idyllic garden apartment complex that felt a little like Melrose Place (I’m dating myself, I know) because so many people we knew lived in or around it. It had this huge glamorous pool that was far more enticing than job searching. So days slipped into weeks, slipped into months, and before you knew it, we had idly passed nearly four months with nary a job on the docket. But, man, did we have rockin’ tans and “regular” status at a bar up the street. Oh, and about $10,000 in credit debt. But we didn’t care. We were young and wild and free.