You've Been Made Redundant

In the months leading up to my illustrious redundancy, I often considered what I would do if I were laid off like so many in post-Lehman Brothers New York City. Having lackluster interest and no real skills in finance, I was not too concerned about a forced reconsideration of my career, so was able to entertain my wildest fantasies. I had whittled my options down to the following: A) save up enough money to travel around South America for a few months B) Pray that my parents were saving up for a large dowry and had pre-arranged my marriage to a European aristocrat or C) live out my ultimate fantasy of becoming a hunter-gatherer.

Last week my team was told in a conference call our business was being dissolved, so I finally got my golden ticket to partake in one of the aforementioned contingency plans. Unfortunately my timing was way off. My savings will barely keep me alive for next few months, let alone get me to South America. My parents seem to have more "modern" ideas about marriage than I had hoped for and evidently have not saved for my dowry nor have they been to continental Europe in the past 20 years. Although my mom did pledge their support after a post-layoff drunken phone call threatening to sell my eggs on Craigslist. Alas, I am left with hunter-gatherer.

When I first made this plan, I imagined the real thing: living in total isolation in nature, gathering roots, eating what I kill, etc. However, I also did not have the foresight to take any nature survival courses, so I will be forced to live out my Plan B in a less natural (albeit much more dangerous) setting. When we were asked to leave our midtown office building around 10:30am on a Tuesday, my instincts kicked in. Having never had a martini (I realize this is very uncool but I detest olives) or Jameson, I was alarmed by my urgent need for both. I was impressed, however, at how quickly I was already in touch with nature and receiving clear messages from my body to drink alcohol! One of my (ex)colleagues and I crawled our way downtown, stopping in most dark or dodgy looking Irish pubs we had always tried to avoid. Although a hunter-gatherer should never actually be pitiful or pathetic, it is sometimes important to appear so when free drinks/food are a possibility. And if you are successful in the hunt, you must eat what you kill. Even if olives and whisky make you want to gag.

As I toured the majority of pubs between 55th street and 26th street that day, my survival instincts prevailed and the martinis and Jameson shots followed sans tab. I think I should attribute this early success to adrenalin, desperation and utter shock. Or maybe it was purely logical for bartenders to assume you just got laid off when you pull up to a bar midmorning in your business suit with two bags full of the highheels you kept under your desk and take pity. When I woke up the next day still wearing my work clothes and frantically looking for my blackberry, I realized it wasn't all just a dream. I really am the hunter-gatherer I always wanted to be, except now I need to learn the skills to survive.