Happy Hour Wasn't Very Happy

I love my younger sister. She’s my best friend, not to mention one of the most talented and intelligent people I’ve ever met. I’m not just saying this because we’re siblings, either. Other people tell us all the time how amazing B. is and, as a proud big sister, I can’t help but agree.

She’s the sort of person who goes through books like a frustrated millennial mom goes through bottles of cheap rosé wine. When we watch Chinese period dramas and the subtitles stop working, she (begrudgingly but good-heartedly) translates them because she studied Mandarin in college and wants to keep her skills sharp. During the pandemic, she taught herself how to make her own sourdough and she’s also recently become my go-to person for all gardening-related questions. I could go on and on, but I hope this paints enough of a picture to give you some idea of how gifted an individual B. truly is.

The only other thing you need to know about B. is that she landed a really nice job before she even technically graduated. She earned it and she’s amazing at it, but you know how it goes with siblings. Even if you love them, and even when you’re proud of them, you sometimes end up feeling jealous.

I’m not proud to admit this, but I envied B. I graduated a few years before she did and it took me a year to even find a job. I had great grades, graduated debt free, and had two shiny new B.A.s to my name; but nobody wanted to hire an English or Psych major with no prior work experience. And if they did, they were either trying to recruit desperate suckers into their MLM’s down line or only offered positions that paid money when you made a sale.

While my sister was killing it at her dream job—and of course, I got to hear about it every time my family visited—I sold Medicare supplements to creepy old men who called me “honey” and cranky old ladies I’m fairly certain I later saw on Hoarders. I even accidentally walked in on a meth lab once, but that’s not my point.

My point is this: although I was proud of B. and I knew she worked her ass off to get that job, I was frustrated because I was also working my ass off. I wasn’t a slacker, nor was I stupid or untalented. If the right company gave me the opportunity to prove myself, I knew I could show them what a valuable asset I was—but I couldn’t even get my foot in the door! The Great Recession was still in full swing and there were more applicants than jobs. I just didn’t hit the right buzzwords in the algorithm to get noticed.

It ate at me, too. And after my next job’s contract expired and wasn’t renewed, I felt dead inside. I know that work or money isn’t supposed to define you; but there’s nothing quite like having neither and slowly watching your savings dry up to make you wonder why your parents even brought you into this world when it’s so expensive to even exist.

By 2012, my rent went up so much that I wouldn’t be able to afford it anymore. Instead of renewing my lease, B. graciously offered to let me move in with her. I packed up everything I owned, moved with my cat to another state, and began my search anew. It was a larger city, had one of the fastest growing economies in the region, and B. talked it up like I’d be able to find something in no time.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t. I spent the next few months filling out application after application, only to receive rejection after rejection. “Not enough experience.” “Needs a master’s degree.” “Must be willing to relocate.” “Work is commission only.” By the time summer rolled around, I’d only managed to schedule four interviews and none of them went anywhere.

Eventually, I stopped leaving the apartment unless I had an interview or needed to buy groceries. I spent hours refreshing certain tabs on my computer, just to see if any new companies had posted an opening. I was miserable, drowning in that deep dark melancholic fog that only prolonged financial anxiety can give you.

B. noticed. We shared walls, and she noticed that I sometimes shut down when she tried to complain about frustrating clients and other office drama. She probably heard me crying in my room a few times too. So, when one of her coworkers invited people to come over to his house for a cookout, she asked if I wanted to come and meet some of her work buddies.

“I think you’ll like them,” she told me. “They’re a pretty lovable bunch of nerds and most of them like craft beer just as much as you do. You’ll get along fine!”

I was thrilled! B. talked about her coworkers a lot, so I kind of felt like I knew these people by proxy. Eager to finally meet them in the flesh, as well as possibly make a few new local friends, I said I’d love to go and bought a four-pack of a hard cider I liked. I looked forward to the party all week.

Then I saw this coworker’s house and nearly had a panic attack. Not only was the house one of the biggest McMansions I’d ever seen; but the kitchen and dining room alone could have swallowed our entire apartment. And the guests…they were everything I told myself I should have been by my mid-twenties but wasn’t.

One of these girls was only a year older than me. She managed over twenty people, ran marathons, and spent a lot of her free time doing charity work. Her blonde hair and nails were professionally done; she was dressed in fashionable clothes; and when I returned from putting my cider in the second fridge in the garage, I overheard her talking about where she wanted to go for her next vacation.

“I was thinking maybe Bali,” I remember her saying as she cheerily sipped on her glass of Chardonnay. “But I’ve been there a few times and figured maybe I should try something new.” Then she turned to me, smiled, and asked if I had any travel suggestions.

I froze. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to answer that. The truth would have made me look like a loser or an overly sensitive buzzkill. And if I lied, I’d sound like a jackass. I was so afraid that B.’s colleagues would go back to their nice homes, laugh about how awkward I was, and politely ask her not to invite me to any more parties.

I wanted to come back. I wanted to get to know these people, but I had nothing in common with them. I know this girl really well now and I know she was only trying to make me feel included. At the very least, she was trying to get to know me because I was B.’s sister. She didn’t know I was unemployed and nearly broke, but all I could think at the time was, ‘Are you fucking serious? You make enough money to go to places like Bali and want to rub it in everyone else’s faces? Good for you. It’s just a shame not everyone in this room can relate with you.’

But everyone could. That was the thing. The only person in that room who couldn’t relate was me. A few minutes later, once the conversation shifted to something else and it was no longer obvious I was uncomfortable, I grabbed one of the ciders I brought and camped out in a nice quiet bathroom for half an hour. Possibly more. I don’t really remember because this was over eight years ago.

There were other parties, as well as more times I listened to B.’s coworkers talk about their foreign work trips and fancy vacations. As much as I grew to like these people—I even babysat one lady’s cats two to three times a year so she could take her little girl to Disney World—that disconnect never fully went away.

But here’s the kicker. I work for that company now. They ended up hiring me a few years later. I still don’t make as much as B. does, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. We just have very different skill sets and one pays more than the other. I love what I do and I saved up enough to make a down payment on my first house. I don’t even need a roommate to help with the mortgage and that’s enough to make me happy.

Now that most of us have been vaccinated and the world is starting to reopen, there’s been some talk about bringing happy hour back. My house isn’t big enough to host more than six people at a time; but I’m actually looking forward when everyone can hang out again. If B. hosts at her house, maybe I can take over bartending duties because I taught myself how to do that during the COVID quarantine. I like to think that I’ve gotten quite good at it and I can’t wait to show off!

I’ve also decided something. If somebody brings a new person along to one of these events, and if that person seems anxious or uncomfortable, I’ll offer to make them a Galliano Fizz, Old Fashioned, or any other drink of their choice. Or maybe I’ll just share one of the hard ciders I brought to the party. After all, happy hour is supposed to be happy for everybody.

Not just those who can afford trips to Bali.