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working in the editorial field. I want a job where I’m always learning and growing and being challenged. It’s hard to say where I’ll be in ten years because things can change so much. I used to think I would teach English until I died, but . . . I don’t know. I think it’s important to be open to change.” I sounded like a job-hopper, an aimless Gen X slacker. “And yet, stability also is good, too. Stability and change. It’s a juggling act, sort of.” What mentally deficient imbecile was this argument going to sway? And tell me I didn’t just end a sentence with a preposition while interviewing for an editorial job. Why did they mock me by continuing to ask me questions when I was clearly an unemployable loser?
    They grilled me for forty-five more minutes and told me I’d either get a rejection letter or a phone call in the coming weeks. I thanked them profusely for the opportunity to meet with them. I couldn’t face Jen and Avery after failing so miserably, so I left without stopping by their office. The fake smile I’d had plastered on all morning melted from my face the moment I left the building.
    On the drive home I reviewed every stupid thing I’d said. The emptiness I felt in my stomach and chest swelled into an uneasy nausea.
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    Small Victories
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    In the dark weeks of unemployment, I often thought that my life was like decaffeinated coffee: utterly pointless. Then I’d think of that thirteen-year-old girl who weighed 680 pounds and died of a heart attack in front of the television she never left. Her body was covered in bedsores and there was feces caught between the folds of her flesh because sometimes it was too difficult for her to haul herself to the bathroom. Her story was a sad one, no question. But sometimes I’d think to myself that, you know, even on my worst days, damn, at least I wasn’t trapped in front of the television shitting on myself; at least I didn’t go around with shit caught in my flabs of fat.
    It’s important to celebrate the small victories in life.
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    Feigning Nymphomania
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    As soon as I got home I peeled off my constricting interview suit and got into my beloved, battered sweats. I had just started making dinner when Greg came home.
    â€œHey, beautiful,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my neck. “This is what I like to see. The wife in the kitchen making my dinner.” He smiled his goofy, lopsided grin that had forced me to fall in love with him.
    â€œSoon-to-be wife and don’t get used to it.” I said it lightly, but I wasn’t kidding about that last part. Since we’d moved in together, Greg had been busy with classes (he’d had to finish a pre-rec this summer, so three days after we got here in June, he’d become nothing more than a blur of textbooks and notebooks and calculators), and I’d been bored and unemployed, so I’d taken to doing most of the cooking and cleaning. It was important that Greg realized that once I finally got a job, he’d have to start doing a much bigger share of domestic duties.
    â€œHow’d the interview go?”
    I groaned. “Let’s just say I no longer feel above doing temp work.”
    â€œYou’re going to find something soon, don’t worry. What are you making?”
    â€œChili and cornbread and salad. Wanna cut salad ingredients?”
    â€œSalad?” Greg whined. He was not a fan of vegetables.
    â€œSome of us need to lose weight so we don’t look repugnant in our wedding dresses.”
    â€œI don’t want there to be an ounce less of you in the world.”
    â€œYou won’t love me if I’m skinny?”
    â€œI’ll always love you.”
    â€œGood. Cut the carrots.” I chopped the garlic and onions for the chili. I wasn’t much of a cook, but I had a few simple recipes that I was capable of making. I would have liked to have made