Saturday, September 27, 2008

Searching


I just saw my j*b posting. They're asking for two years' experience. I have 18. Those [f***ers -- actually, that looks so nasty in print how bout "people"] think someone with two years' experience can please them. Actually, it will probably work better. B*ss clearly wants someone more junior. Going through the other job ads is making me feel like I know zilch about anything. I see a couple of positions that could build on what I've just done, but I don't have anyone to give me a good reference. Somewhere inside my head, I know I did a great job, but I also feel like a total failure.

But wasn't this bound to happen after such a negative experience? My confidence is busted, fractured and broken down. The old chocolates I found under a file on my desk are probably not even going to help.

Ugh. My desk is piled up with the detritus of my L-cube at work, as well as bills, receipts, my laptop's battery (laptop needs repair; ugh), chocolates (did I mention the chocolates?), craft materials, Charlie's preschool graduation hat, some of my husband's late aunt's recipes, a birthday present from my mom, a bag of train tracks from a toy choo-choo train I think we no longer own, my 2007 income tax, and under all that, a sewing machine. Behind me is the dining room table, crowded with the plants from my desk at work. The stick thingie in the middle is what's left of the orchid my brother gave me to "cheer me up at work".

What the heck, I'll take a picture. I have no shame left. I will even admit here that I can't find my login name for my EAC membership so I can check their job listings (it's here somewhere). I found the IABC one right away though, which is where I just saw my j*b listed.

I'm 45 and lost. How did I let this happen?

On the way back from our trip to Niagara Falls last Sunday - we took the Bike Train! -- I was having a terrible time riding home from Union Station. It was a struggle, and I was thinking, god, I'm getting old! I must be getting tired more easily; or maybe I'm just out of shape from my comparatively flat ride to work while the ride home from Union is up hill all the way. It was a warm, humid, noisy, busy evening, lots of people out on the street, and my husband with Charlie on his bike, were way ahead and kept having to wait for me at stop lights. Then, at around Harbord on St. George, there was a lull in the traffic and sidewalk noise, and I heard a shhhhhhhh. Lord-a-mercy, something was rubbing against the wheel. I caught up to my husband at Bloor, and we checked it out -- the front brake-pad was stuck, pressed against the wheel. I was so happy it wasn't me! But then, after we disengaged the front brakes altogether so I could make it up the Casa Loma hill, I cried as I rode. I'd been convinced it was me. And I tried to resolve to not let that happen as I planned my next move for the future.

I worked very hard at the j*b, and wrote and produced a magazine, every issue, on time, on target, on budget, and with consistent positive feedback from throughout the company. My b*ss did not ever dispute this, but glossed it over - not a real achievement, as far as she was concerned. But the fact that I sent her a draft that had an incomplete sentence in it on Wednesday, August 27 was a sin for the ages.

I feel a bit better. Taking that pic of my desk is making me feel a little motivated. I've been thinking of this mess, my desk, being a metaphor for myself. But let's call it "Before", as in before what happens next.

And, I'll add a new label - hope - first time on the list.

1 comment:

  1. Perfect analogy--your old b*ss was the brake pad, and now you know it wasn't you. Just keep pedaling.

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