In the Land of Lemons

    When I was in fourth grade, I remember sitting in an awkward area where my desk faced this inspirational poster that read, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." For the entire time I sat there, staring at all seven words on a daily basis, I didn't really understand why they referenced lemons. Why that fruit? The underlying message was received, but I guess I was too cynical to try and accept the lemon part.

    It wasn't until this morning that I really understood the reasoning when my boss called me into his office, sat me down, and with a fake smile said, "You have a week to find a new job."

    The bitterness of his words left a sour taste in my mouth. And that was when I realized this was it. The lemony part that life gave you.

    "I-I'm sorry," I cleared my throat when my words came out crackly. "I don't think I heard you ri–"

    "One week, Candice," he repeated. "We are looking to take your role in a different direction."

    "My . . . graphic designing position."

    "Yes." He leaned back further into his chair making his round stomach more noticeable.

    It still didn't make any sense. "But . . . this is what I went to school for."

    "We know. And we know the . . . suddenness of all this is kind of . . . sudden, but this is a move we want to make for the company. To make it better. I'm sure you understand."

    I didn't understand.

    I lost my job of two years not because of my talents or hard-working ethic, but because it was better for the company.

    A part of me knew that this was the point where I was supposed to be making "lemonade." That my worth could not be traded in so easily. For a moment it worked when I blasted upbeat music and squirted chocolate syrup directly into my mouth while dancing around the kitchen. But that could only do so much before I realized without an income I might lose this kitchen, this place, hell maybe even another bottle of chocolate syrup! So naturally, I slipped into meltdown number three of the night.

    I was sobbing on the floor when I heard my phone go off. I decided to ignore it until it rang repeatedly. With a huff and a few unkind words, I grabbed my phone and answered, "What?"

    "Candice?" asked a familiar voice.

    "Yes?"

    "What are you doing?"

    "I'm dying, Mom."

    "Again?"

    "New location."

    "So not in the middle of a grocery store parking lot?"

    "Decided for a change of scenery." I looked up at my fridge. "The kitchen floor feels more suitable."

    She sighed on the other end. "You know you are not going to achieve anything down there."

    "Speak for yourself. I just finished off a bottle of chocolate syrup."

    "Candice," she busted out her maternal voice, "you need to stop this."

    "Stop what?"

    "This pity party that has been going on for the past week."

    "Pity party?!" I leaned up to a sitting position. "Mom, I lost my job. Like officially a few hours ago."

    "You did."

    "I deserve to grieve."

    "You do. And you have. Now you move on."

    I scoffed. "Easy for you to say."