Thursday, January 08, 2009

I'm lucky.

I have to keep telling myself I'm lucky. I have a job. I'm lucky, lucky, lucky.

Every Monday morning when I wake with a knot of dread in the pit of my stomach and a throbbing headache, I know I'm lucky.

I drive to work, weary before I've even arrived. Trek across the frozen tundra of a parking lot, icy needles of the wind piercing my cheeks. I'm lucky.

I sit down at my desk, fire up my computer, glance at the phones to see half a dozen or more calls waiting - each caller more frustrated than the last. Email from leadership with vague, obscure messages, forecasting negative numbers and all sorts of unacceptable metrics. I'm lucky.

We're seat-fillers. Companies can fill 5-9 seats in India at the same cost it takes to fill just one of our seats. We know this, yet push it to the back of our minds even though much of our processing responsibilities have already been off-shored. We're lucky.

Yes, my friends, this country is in trouble. I'm lucky to have a job when so many others are arriving at work this morning to pink slips, given ten minutes to box up years worth of desk memorabilia and be escorted to the door by security - not even allowed to say goodbye to colleagues, peers . . . friends.

So, I take my meds and visit my therapist regularly to keep the dogs of depression and woe at bay. I complete all the ridiculous exercises in "What Color is Your Parachute," even though I already know my strengths, my skills and the job environment where I'll be most happy for the next 25 years:

I want a position which has zero chance of being outsourced.
I want to be trusted, not micromanaged.
I want to be creative, innovative, forward-thinking. A problem-solver.
I want to utilize my written communication skills.
I want to utilize my artistic skills.
I want to research, investigate, resolve, complete, present.

I received the summary plan description for the long-term disability plan I'm enrolled in. For my age bracket, the "expected retirement age" is 67.

Folks, this isn't your grandfather's retirement plan.

For those of you who have lost your jobs, I'm truly sorry. Hang in there - I hope you find something soon.


Kenna said...

I hear you sister. You've been on my mind. Let's reconnect.

teahouse said...

Hang in there. Just take one day at a time...

Jaimie said...

Hi Sally, I hadn't been to your blog for so long that at first I couldn't remember the name. I'm sorry about your depression and other problems. Please get in touch if you feel like talking.

teahouse said...

I keep having faith that as a country, we will all collectively get through this time!