Janetti - Do you mind if I cancel?: (things that still annoy me)

Im twenty-four or twenty-five. What does it matter? Twentysomething. Its all just one age, really. I thought there was a difference at the time. I remember graduating college at twenty-two and wanting to join the Peace Corps, but when I found out the commitment was two years, I reacted like it was a block of time I could barely comprehend. Two years?! But Ill be twenty-four when its over!

I only really wanted to join because I liked to travel and be around attractive people. The helping others aspect of it was not at the forefront of my mind. It was mostly me, incredibly lean and tan, sipping a drink at some local rooftop bar in an exotic city somewhere like Marrakech or Istanbul surrounded by young, handsome selfless men such as myself. The actual mechanics of the Peace Corps never entered into it. It was more about the going out after work part and the weekend trips to remote beaches with simple chic lodgings for five U.S. dollars a night.

During my imaginary stint in the Peace Corps I would grow my hair out. The climate and water in my new country would do wonders for it, making it more full-bodied and manageable than it ever was in New York. I wouldnt fuss with it though. I would be too busy helping people dig a well or teaching them something that would no doubt improve their lives. Whenever I would get complimented on it, which would be often, I would tell people its only this long for practical reasons. I can tuck it behind my ears and I wont have to bother with it. Even though a perfect lock would flop over an eye every time I bent down to lift another shovelful of dirt, forcing me to exhale exasperatedly to blow it out of my face because I couldnt possibly be bothered tucking it behind my ear again.

Due to all the physical labor I was performing my body would transform itself into something out of a magazine practically overnight. I would not notice it though. Too consumed with my work in the village to be bothered by such trivial matters. Although it would be hard for me to avoid with the constant attention it would embarrassingly bring me. The girls in the village giggling shyly when I crossed the dirt square that served as the communitys central gathering place with a long stick across my bulging shoulders straining to hold the enormous buckets of water at either end. I would smile at them and call out their names as I passed, pronouncing each unique one perfectly.

I would be beloved in the village. And I would become best friends with the volunteer who worked in the next village over. So close I could walk there at the end of the day so we could enjoy a beer together, bonding over our shared passion for helping those in need. Josh would be blond. And have a deep voice. And we would be exactly one month apart in age. And he wouldve been a champion swimmer in college who was on an Olympic track but had to put his dreams aside when a knee injury forced him to rethink his life. We would talk about this constantly. Me being the reassuring friend. His entire support system. His confidant each night as he breaks down in my arms. Who am I if I cant swim? Its okay, Josh, shh, Im here.

And then I would get sick. Or Josh would get sick. One of us would get sick. Probably him. And during this time we would profess our love for each other. And one would nurse the other back to health.

And our affair would be lit like a National Geographic special. Yellow sunrises, golden sunsets, clear starlit skies.

Its about this time that the villagers and any kind of charitable work pretty much disappear from my imaginary time in the Peace Corps.

This part on is mostly beaches and tanning. A photo spread of young love as envisioned by Cond Nast Traveler.

But the thought of being gone for an entire two years is enough to dissuade me from this potential new life. The fact that what I was actually looking for was an extended warm-weather vacation with a fitness model as opposed to the life-altering growth experience that the Peace Corps in reality was never enters into the equation. I decide not to apply. I would be too old by the time I returned. It would be too late to start my career as a novelist, which I have just decided I want to be. I would lose too much time. I would miss too much.

Two years go by in about a second and I accomplish absolutely nothing. Literally thinking on my twenty-fourth birthday, shit, I shouldve joined the Peace Corps I wouldnt have missed a thing.

Well, I wouldve missed being a cashier, and an office temp and a salesman at Ralph Lauren but thats it. I still have plans on becoming a novelist even though I have no idea what that entails. Aside from writing. Which I havent done yet. Better to get life experience first. I cant write about nothing.

To that end I take a new job. Its for an agency called Lend-A-Hand. Lend-A-Hand matches people looking for someone to do a job for them, any job, with the people who are desperate enough to do them.

This was an awful time in the world, just before the internet, when you actually had to go into places in person to meet with prospective employers. Requiring you to speak with varying assistants and assorted others many steps along the way.

Im not one of those people who goes on about how much better things used to be before the horrors of social media and modern technology. On the contrary, I wish there were more of it. I wish there were a way to slash at least another 50 percent of all human interaction. Nobody has that much to say when you get right down to it. I prefer a life of texting and scrolling Instagram to one of having to pick up the phone and talk to someone like an animal. No, thank you. You can keep your nostalgia. I wish to God I were a millennial. Id be so good at it. Better than these shitty ones. I wouldnt be wasting my time being offended by every little thing or promoting positive body images or getting involved in politics. Id be avoiding people. Id be working from home. Id be watching TV on my laptop. They dont know the nightmare it was to actually have had to talk to people all the time. And we werent allowed to have social anxiety like you are now. Nobody even knew about it. I would have been in heaven if I could have suffered from anxiety.

But here I am, in my twenties, with no technology, having to make an appointment on the phone and I dont know who Im going to talk to because I cant Google anyone and since I dont even know what that is at the time I dont miss it but knowing now what it is and thinking back on how different it was then I feel like I came of age in pioneer times and its not fair. So, no, I dont care if everyone is looking at their fucking phone now. They should be. It tells you everything.

Does any of this matter when Im twenty-four or twenty-five and going into Lend-A-Hand for an interview? It doesnt. But it annoys me when I think of how much easier everything couldve been.

The Lend-A-Hand office is small and cluttered and there is one woman who works there. She sits behind a desk with a stack of index cards on them. Each card has an available job on it. They range from cleaning apartments to cater waiter for a private partythe most sought-after job she tells me, often involving large tips and the glamour thats associated with serving cocktails to people who can afford to hire help.