Run for Your Life
The Algorithm Will See You Now
My boss over at The Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) gave us two clear instructions for this month: write about sports and touching grass.
is a very liberal boss, letting us interpret the assignment as we see fit. Also, as it needn’t be two different essays, here I am, writing about my favourite type of grass-touching: running.But before we get into the subject, let me tell you a bit about my current circumstances, because nothing says ‘human’ like ranting about how much I hate complainers, only to complain about how much it all sucks six weeks later.
I can’t remember if I’ve told you already or not that I am looking for a new job. The thing is that, thus far, I have been pathetically unsuccessful. I think I reached rock bottom when I went to an interview, nailed it, knew I was qualified, and still didn’t get it. The hiring person delivered the news on the phone, explaining the lame reasons for not choosing me (they are always lame, aren’t they?), and not sixty seconds later, I received an automated email from the artificial intelligence platform that managed the process. And here is dystopia at its finest. The email reiterated the lie I’d just been told, you know, that ‘someone else was a better fit’1, and then cheerfully continued2:
‘How would you rate your experience of applying for a job at the XYZ?
We know that it's never fun to get a rejection on an application where you have personally invested both time and effort. Unfortunately, it is not possible for us to offer all our applicants a job, but we endeavour to give everyone who applies for a job at XYZ a good recruitment experience. We are very keen to get your anonymous feedback and your suggestions on what we can do even better.’
I mean, this deserves a big — no, a HUGE — ‘WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!?!?!?!’
As I sat there, tears rolling down my face, reading the offending email in incredulous stupor, my first instinct was to dump this piece of information in our STSC Discord account, because nothing is better than a room full of humans cracking jokes on the tragedies of modernity to get over those very tragedies of modernity. My support group did not disappoint, and in five minutes, I was laughing through my tears at satiric responses to stupid interview questions. Because if the job application process isn’t already degrading enough, the interview stage surely cements its place in the downfall of Western civilisation. I still laugh when I read this one from
:‘How was your experience getting rejected by a dehumanized algorithmic process? Your answers will help the algorithmic process reject people in a more personalized, albeit still dehumanizing way.’
The second thing I did was switch off the computer, pick up my bag and laugh-cry myself home, to the loving arms of my human family, filled with people who don’t ask stupid questions like ‘What was your motivation to apply for the job?’ or ‘What do you think you can bring to this department?’ I was offered a glass of Nebbiolo and a perfect pasta dish, and I was heard.
The next day, when disappointment had waned into fury, the third thing I did was go running.
I have written about my love for running before, but since I have an assignment about sports, I might as well write about it again.
I started running mid-distances at the age of 16. After a long pause from my running endeavours, I took it up again for all the wrong reasons — to be thinner. Now, as a 16-year-old, I was already thin, but as a 16-year-old growing up in the late 90s, when heroin chic was the beauty standard, one had to be on a diet and burning off the occasional McDonald’s. We were all told there is nothing like ‘too thin.’ Someone should have told that girl that running would not make her body disappear, nor allow her to leave it behind. I am sure my mum did mention quite a few times that there was nothing wrong with it, but… what did she know? What do mothers know, right?
I very seldom open the old photo albums my mum treasures, but when I do, I cannot help but wonder at the girl who stares back at me. How could she think that she was anything but beautiful?
I kept running through my twenties, very irregularly, since it did not fit my smoker’s profile. But still, when life got too heavy and I needed to leave it behind, even if for only 40 minutes, I put on my trainers and I ran, feeling the burn in my lungs, my heart in my throat, feeling defeated, and wondering in my 28th year, ‘Am I already too old?’
I ran a ridiculous amount of miles on a treadmill in a San Francisco gym where I lived for 8 months in my 31st year. Running on those hills was impossible without ending up with a punctured lung, so I ran on a machine that faced a huge window where I could see the clouds and stop asking myself the hard questions that haunted me at the time: ‘Am I good enough? What is this idea of success that feels unattainable?’ I ran to fight off self-doubt. About that time, I reached the 6-minute mile (and I was still smoking), a feat I might never conquer again, but I wasn’t interested in any of that. I just ran to stop myself from crying. I think it was around then that I hit the runner’s high for the first time: my gaze alternating between the clouds and the flashes of my fluorescent pink shoelaces — one two, one two, one two. I could see my thighs coming in and out of my field of view — left right, left right, left right. I was hyper-focused on the movement and the sound of my feet on the treadmill— thump, thump, thump. The world, a blur. Feeling the sweat dripping from my nose, my legs and feet at it, automatic, disengaged from my brain that was just a spectator, watching the clouds, mouthing the lyrics of ‘Fuck You’ by Lily Allen, feeling the rhythm of it all.
When I came back from SF, I took up running regularly again, but this time not to escape my life, but just for fun; to experience my body as truly mine and love it for what it can do: like getting high on movement, or soothing the sting of a rejection I can’t think my way out of.
This is my submission for the Soaring Twenties Social Club Symposium. We are a group of idlers who share ideas and companionship. Each month, STSC members create something around a theme, this month’s theme being ‘Sports’ I hope you enjoyed it.
Clearly, I was God’s gift to this position.
I swear I copy-pasted this from the email.
As someone who hates running, if I read something about running and it makes me want to go for a run, you can consider it a success.
I can so-o-o relate to this, Ana. I, too, am looking for a job. Have been for months and, even though I know I am the perfect fit, I get the same AI response. And, I'm, like, what the actual ... you know. Did a human even read my resume and cover letter that I took days to prepare? It seems not, nor did a human write the rejection email. Is the entity really seeking to hire or are they just getting free advertising for their business? I get to the point where I wonder why bother? Maybe someone out of the blue will just discover me and beg to hire me. But, I go on, because I need to earn the money to pay someone to mow my lawn before the weeds get too dense. And, then, it's my age -- 83. Who wants to hire an 83-year-old? But, I have to work. Luckily, I found someone to help me create a resume that makes me seem half my age. I just had to leave out the 65 years of experience I offer. Wishing you the best. With your talent, let's hope an actual human will find you soon.