It's there when I wake up in the morning, and it's there when I go to bed at night. Every waking moment, I am conscious of NOT being at work. It literally sits in my belly like a lump of stress that I can't get rid of. And lately, I've been having occasional dreams of not being employed.
It's not fun.
For most of my adult life, I have been blessed, and yes, it's a blessing, to be able to structure my life around the workplace. Despite the trials and aggravations that working a 9-5 job invariably entail, there is comfort in the routine. You are providing for your family. You are a valued member of society. You're using the skills you've developed and the gifts that God has given you. You're one of those pushing and shoving your way through traffic during rush hour to get to-and-from work. You have a purpose.
I saw it coming, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. At a staff meeting, about the middle of 2011, a friend of mine at work asked our supervisor about rumors of upcoming "changes." Much to my surprise, my supervisor did not deny hearing the same rumors. Sales were bad. A new "activist investor" had forced his way onto the board of directors by buying up stock when the price was depressed and was pressing to make the company more profitable. One way to make a company more profitable is to lay off long-time workers.
And so, for me and many others, the layoff clock began its inescapable progress toward the end of my employment and the beginning of a new chapter in my life.
I guess I had been there too long, had been too complacent and thought that all of my prior experience was "valuable" to the department. What a foolish thought. I was in denial. I thought, well, if I do a good job, have great reviews, stay late and come in even when others stay home, say during an ice storm, that my supervisors would see how crucial I was to the operation. Well, maybe some of them did realize that, but everything you do to prove your current worth and everything you've done in the past becomes totally irrelevant when an outside consultant gets secretly hired to evaluate everyone in your department. I had accumulated a decent salary. I was a target. A poster boy for layoffs. I fit the bill.
Even when I received the "dreaded phone call" to please come to the creative director's office right away, a part of me was still in denial. I left my office, threaded my way through the cube maze and made my way to the room to find my supervisor and some nerdy looking HR guy I had never seen before sitting at a circular table with serious looks on their faces and a manila envelope on the table.
My supervisor said, "Hi Steve. Close the door and have a seat."
Even at this point, with the corporate cutting knife hovering at the back of my neck, I still had hope. A fleeting thought came to me. "Maybe they're going to reassign me." I was interested in working for other areas in the company. My goals and my career track were right there in my "associate profile." Plus, our director was such a nice guy, who cared about all of us and had helped to protect us from these things in the past. Maybe he would be able to protect us this time, too.
No. Not this time. This time it was for real. This time, I would finally use the plastic grocery bags I kept stashed in the back of one of my desk drawers for the past three years, ready for the moment when I would get the "dreaded phone call" and need something to carry my stuff out to my car.
My job was "eliminated." They gave me a "separation date." My supervisor had tears in her eyes, and was genuinely upset. She hugged me and told me to go home for the rest of the day, or even take the rest of the week off if I wanted to. The little nerdy HR guy held out his hand to "wish me all the best." I didn't know what to do. I shook his hand.
My supervisor gave me a hug and walked me to the door. Again, this was the creative director's office, even though he was nowhere in sight. I noticed that there was a huge sign on the back of the door that read "The End."
I pointed it out to my supervisor and said, "That's an appropriate sign, don't you think?" I wasn't trying to be cute or sarcastic. Although I was in a bit of a fog, I was trying to be humorous. I don't think it came across as too funny. So I made my way back to my desk, quietly gathered some of my things, and spent the rest of the week in a slightly stunned state, not knowing what to do. I spent a lot of time on my backyard swing, either reading a book or laying there with my eyes closed, feeling the warm breeze on my face and the glow of the warm sunshine through my eyelids. I guess I was in shock. I guess it was the beginning of the first stage in the grieving process.
Later, my supervisor told me that she relayed my comment about the "The End" sign to the creative director.
She said he jumped up from his desk and ripped it off the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment