Number of weeks that Lissa Cuneen has been without full-time employment: 18. Number of resumes she's sent out in the last week: 3. Last meal eaten before writing this post: "Lean Cuisine. Bought on sale! Months ago! It had freezer burn!"

I find it harder and harder to think of things to write about. Every week is much the same as the last. I work my ass off slinging coffee, come home and troll the internet for job leads. As the weeks have turned into months my past life as a productive cog in the wheel of capitalism seems more and more unreal.

I look in my closet at all-but-forgotten corporate costumes, nice shoes I have no use for, handbags from another time, and think, 'Huh, who was I again?' Now I wear the same re-soled shoes every day, and the same cheap polo shirts from Target that are rapidly growing thread bare. Besides the growing despair at a wasted education, if not life, I’m getting reeeeeeeeeeeally bored with the same three pairs of black pants! Part of my excitement at fruitless interviews is I get to break out the Grey Slacks from The Gap and walk around looking like I have somewhere important (ish) to go.

I find that I have another interesting underemployment wrinkle to deal with now that I’ve worked enough hours to qualify for health benefits. I’m thrilled to have them, but it’s only in 3-month blocks, and I have to keep my hours up to maintain eligibility. As a consequence, I’m a little bit trapped behind the steam wand. On top of that, many of the jobs I’ve seen posted are either part time or don’t offer benefits or both. There are worse problems I could have, that’s for sure. But I do find it ironic that my best bet at this point might be sticking with being a barista.

Truly not what I envisioned I’d be doing at 46. But who among us, the vast masses of unemployed, overeducated, middle-aged white people, is not looking in the mirror wondering who the hell we are now?

I’m sure that for some this whole economic collapse brings with it a hearty dish of schadenfreude. They might smile thinly as they read about our confusion and identity crises. “Good” they may think, “Your capitalistic chickens have come home to roost!” “You should be grateful for the gruel, Yuppie!” They’re right, of course.

Many of the people suffering now are learning much-needed lessons in humility, responsibility, and frugality. And for those who have been struggling all along, it must be hard not to take a little joy in the comeuppance, but I ask that after enjoying that glow in their cable-less, ramen-stocked studio apartments, they think for a moment what it’s like to lose everything you’ve always taken for granted. To wake up in the morning with no clear idea of where you fit anymore, or how you’re going to meet the expectations of your family, not to mention yourself.

I’m not talking about myself necessarily, although I am facing all that to a degree. I’m thinking of all those yuppie dads who sit in my store with their laptops trying like hell to find a job that will keep a roof over their heads. If they can’t provide that, then who does society say they are? I watch them count their change to see if they can get the Americano or just the drip coffee and they break my heart. It’s hard enough trying to be a brave little toaster for yourself alone. I can’t imagine if you have a bunch of other small appliances depending on you as well.

Ah well, it is late as I write this, and that probably is contributing to my weepiness. Tomorrow I’ll get up and do it all again, and so will the rest of us. That’s all we can do.

Have an unemployment story to share? Write to jobless@thestranger.com.