A Millennial's Muse – Part 14: One More Thing Before I Go

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

I would have liked to close this series with a neatly-woven message about what I learned during the bumpy course of my first job and all the questions I found answers to. I would if I could, but I can't. To be honest, I still live in the gray and wear a layer of confusion no matter the season.

I began my (beloved) relationship with Employee Evolution with a post paralleling dating and job interviewing. Dating can lead to a relationship, interviewing can lead to a job and the finality of both are things I (and I'm sure you) have dealt with. This whole series is going to come full circle. Can you stand the suspense? Get your beverage of choice, kids, because this is a long one.

Puppy Love Sans Heavy Petting

I met Danny in 7th grade, and he was the first guy I was really friends with. It started with a crush (mine on him). I initially wanted us to be a modern rendition of Romeo and Juliet, but it became clear (quickly) that we could only ever be Will and Grace (Will was gay if you didn't watch the show). Always the late bloomer, my friendship with Danny allowed me to experience the emotional connection of a boyfriend without having to actually – you know – do stuff.

People said that we bickered like an old married couple, which I loved hearing, because it spoke to a closeness beyond its years in real time. I can remember coming home, storming up the stairs to my bedroom and my mom asking what was wrong.

"We had a fight." It was the most serious relationship I never had.

Six years later, we were about to graduate from high school and were barely speaking. We grew apart (a general description for my first heartbreak), and the only thing left to do was say good-bye before heading off to different colleges.

As Danny walked me home on one of my last nights before morphing into a Gator, I felt him reach for my hand. I tried to hold back the tears, but when I saw that he was already crying, I made us a weepy duet. He said that ours was the good-bye he didn't want to have. When we reached my house, we coupled crying with hugging. He silently told me everything I had wanted to hear.

My pseudo-romantic relationship with Danny prepared me for future adventures in dating and also primed me for the yet-to-occur love whammy – when I find someone I adore who doesn't say (like Danny did), "Jack, get real. I'm physically repulsed by you."

Two and ½ Weeks Nonsense

I spent the first week making procedural documents to ease the transition of my workload to the poor kids left behind. I felt a cold reception from many people after news of my resignation spread like wildfire (no joke). Maybe it was resentment, but nonetheless it hurt my feelings, which surprised me because I thought I had emotionally checked out long before.

Magnum couldn't have been nicer to me, though. She cried a few more times, and I'd receive Instant Messages from her that read: (Fast forward to today when Magnum and I are both at new jobs and share a healthy friendship that includes occasional socializing – who would have thought?).

During my final week, I sat in a cubicle that became more barren by the day. I relished the feeling of throwing things away – training manuals, meeting minutes and the staff phone directory (reprinted monthly due to the high turnover – still gives me the giggles). My sentiment turned nostalgic when I removed thumbtacks from photos that reminded me of the fun I did have, like when I was part of a trio that won the company's Halloween costume contest for dressing up as the cast of Three's Company. I make one hell of a Chrissy Snow.

As I trained co-workers to do aspects of my job, I realized the magnitude of responsibilities I had juggled and how many skills I was leaving with. And while it wasn't a job I enjoyed, I'm proud of myself for mastering something I cared nothing about. It gives me hope that when I do find my magnum opus, Latin for "great work," I'll have what it takes to hit a professional high-note.

I gave cards to managers I respected (and who could one day serve as references) and, in the rawest form of selflessness, offered all of my remaining office supplies to neighboring cubicle dwellers (sometimes you find strength you never knew existed). That reminds me; I'd be terribly remiss if I didn't mention Neighbor, wouldn't I?

In the time left, I tried to visit Neighbor in her cubicle as often as possible. She had work to do, so I was happy to just gaze at her while she responded to emails (fast forward to today when I delight in the too few times we see each other and remain forever grateful for the laughs and support of my corporate angel).

Hit the Road, Jack

On my last day, people warmed up a bit (maybe the office supplies mitigated their bitterness) to wish me good luck and offer the corporate yearbook version of "Have a good summer! Don't ever change! K.I.T." I did my exit interview and left through the revolving front door one final time. From there I went to a coffee shop for a frozen mocha likely as caloric as a milkshake. I sat there, sipped my tasty beverage and started to cry.

I had just gotten out of a situation I despised and instead of being overjoyed, I was overwhelmed by the thought of how drastically my life would soon change. I called my Dad, who has a magical way of appeasing me with, "Jackie, trust Daddy (why must the man always speak in third person?), everything will be okay."

And it is.

Still Amused

I've been at my new job for almost five months, and it's the complete opposite of my former position. Opposite doesn't translate to perfect, though. Like my girl Emily D. also said, each day I "dwell in possibility." I continue to have a wandering eye for graduate programs, alternative Peace Corps-esque experiences, and my career whammy. It's got to be out there. Maybe it's hiding with my love whammy?

Whether a relationship or a job (or a writing column) is ending, know that it's not the actual goodbye that matters – it's everything that happened beforehand which makes you think a goodbye should do justice to the story built over time. So, in this spirit, love someone the best way you know how to (even if it's an unconventional relationship) and work well at whatever you do (no matter how much you dislike it), because both will teach you how to recognize who and what you want in this crazy life we try to navigate.

Thank you, [your first name], for joining me these past [any number up to 14] weeks and paying me the highest compliment by allowing me to become a part of the story of your life.

I leave you with one of my favorite quotes, ending this series in the way each muse has begun. When I read this quote, I feel less of the self-imposed weight I carry on my shoulders, knowing that when I'm ready my whammies will come. I hope yours do, too.

Until we muse again,
Jackie

A Millennial's Muse — Part 13: Cubicle Dweller Overboard

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

The final eight months (out of 20) spent at my first job out of college were acutely miserable. Just ask my mom, the bearer of lunchtime rants from her (formerly) favorite daughter. Sometimes I cried on my lunch hour. People shutter when I tell them this and look at me like I'm fragile (I'm anything but). For me, it was an intuitive release (not a weakness) – a frustration purge – that allowed me to go back and finish the day. To each yuppie her (or his) own.

What follows are highlights of the final stretch before I found reason to cry tears of joy.

Magnum a la Medication

Is a line of respectability crossed when your boss ingests Xanax in front of you before a big presentation to the Board of Directors? There I was in Magnum's office – she the seasoned professional, me the novice yuppie – reviewing our strategy when she reached into her desk drawer for drugs.

"Ho hum, ho hum, this is awkward," I thought to myself.

Hair Me Out

The lunch hour can be a time for eating, running errands, perusing the shelves at a local bookstore or getting an impromptu bikini wax. Yeah, you read me correctly.

Getting waxed after work or on the weekends isn't worth mentioning, but in between conference calls and mail merges – there had to be more to it. Maybe I wanted to see which felt worse – having hot wax ripped off my sensitive skin or dealing with Magnum's tirades.

When I returned to the office after getting waxed, a "you don't know what I just did…" feeling of empowerment fueled me for the remainder of that day. It felt good to be a badass.

Barefoot and Cubified

I wore an ultra-comfortable, supportive sandal on the way to and from work and brought a pair of work-appropriate shoes to change into after arriving and checking my personal e-mail account. Those first 20 minutes were my way of sticking it to the company. Don't overwork me or I will retaliate. I also did a wee bit of international calling, keeping in touch with a close friend from a post-college internship abroad. "Pierre, don't ever feel bad about putting me on hold for an extended period of time."

As the distaste for my job grew, I stopped changing into the work-appropriate shoes (unless I had a meeting) and eventually relinquished all foot enclosures, preferring to be barefoot and seated in half lotus.

Hey Magnum, Pass the Coleslaw

I attended the company picnic (anything for barbecue). Again, they couldn't pay fair wages, but they did splurge for a bounce house. I gave it a go for a while to jump off some of the potato salad. When I returned to my department's table, I looked Magnum straight in the eye and said, "I bounced."

Magnum: "You what?"?
Slightly dizzy Jackie: I bounced.

Magnum: "What the hell does that mean?"
Verbally abused Jackie: I jumped around in the bounce house.
Magnum: "Why would you ever do that?"
Somber Jackie: Because for a brief moment in time I wanted to pretend that my life still had a trace of levity to it.

The Last Leg

Since deciding against a lateral move months before, I continued to send out resumes off and on, finding that a constant search was too emotionally draining for me. I felt like it was similar to looking for love. I've come to believe that sometimes the right job/love eludes you no matter how badly you want it, and it only surfaces at the time you desperately need it most and are ready for it.

The weighty frustration with my job overshadowed everything I loved about my life after 5:00 p.m., so much so that I was willing to give it all up for a (temporary) alternative lifestyle. I took a solo vacation to a yoga retreat center for two reasons: 1) To get some R&R; 2) To check out the option of working there in exchange for room and board.

I loved my visit and asked thorough questions of current volunteers, even getting a behind-the-scenes tour of their (and my potential) living quarters. I left the Berkshires feeling like I could do it, but didn't feel compelled to pursue that option.

Not long after the yoga vacation, I got a phone call that, in less than a week, morphed into a new job. My sister's former boss recommended me to her friend, who was the new director of a non-profit organization and was looking for more staff.

For a slew of good reasons, I accepted the position.

My Turn to Shoot

I entered Magnum's office with an envelope containing my resignation letter. She saw the weapon in hand and said something like, "Ohhhhh, you are not going to tell me…"

You bet I did. "I don't know an easy way to tell you this, but I accepted another position."

She put her hands over her mouth and then (shockingly) offered encouraging and congratulatory words, promising to help in any way she could in the future. Was she kidding?? I basically told my parents that I loved them the night before because I really feared a violent reaction.

Magnum started to cry and retrieved tissues from her baby blue purse. She asked if I'd be interested in staying if she countered the offer.

"No."

On my way out,
Jackie

P.S. – Next week is my final muse. Sniff.

A Millennial's Muse – Part 12: The 7 Wonders of the Working World

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

In the beginning of a new year, social mores encourage us to look ahead, pursue those resolutions (before they disappear), and seek comfort in a year that promises to be better than the one that just concluded.

As a young professional, I wondered if the second year at a job that made me nauseous would reveal answers to the countless questions lurking inside me (i.e. What's the point? When will it get better? Where's the rescue boat? Why does everyone (seemingly) know what they want to do except for me?), or would I be left floundering in a deep pool of wonder?

Here are some situations that left me with a quizzical look on my kisser:

Wonder #1 – Sitting in boardroom meetings with people who felt empowered by leather chairs on wheels (not I), I often wondered if anyone else had removed their shoes and were sitting cross-legged. Do other people's feet not touch the floor too? Oh how I wondered.

Wonder #2 – Apparently someone I worked with thought that I worked for her. I can recall a wonder-full occurrence when she came over to my cubicle with a letter, an envelope (address label already typed and fixed to the outside), and asked me to mail it for her. Ok, let me make sure that I'm not confused. You wrote the letter, you went so far as to type and print an address label, and now you want me to fold the letter, put it in the envelope, seal it, and drop it in the mail bin 4 ft. from your cubicle? Right, so indeed you are a lazy [enter expletive] with a chip on your shoulder. That placed her in my "dead to me" category.

Wonder #3 РWhy did I work on my birthday? Magnum did give me a birthday lunch at my favorite Thai restaurant and let me invite some co-workers (Neighbor was there for sure). Everyone (and I mean everyone) got a cake on their birthday, even those birthday folks who most people didn't like. Shortly after my lunch soir̩e, Magnum came into my cubicle with tears in her eyes and said, "This is why I'm [she's] a horrible mother."

Me: Why, Magnum?
Magnum: "Because I forgot to order you a cake."

Okay. Alright, I'll get through this. It's only a very insignificant year (23) and I'm at my pathetically low paying job. Who needed icing for a pick-me up? I did.

Wonder #4 – How do well-educated professionals find it an impossible task to remove their edibles from the community fridge prior to the food spoiling and turning putrid colors?

Wonder #5 – Why did so many female co-workers wear pants that weren't long enough? Nothing bothered me more.

Wonder #6 – Why didn't people re-stock the paper in the printer after doing a 500 page print job? Does toilet paper etiquette not apply to Hewlett Packard?

Wonder #7 – Speaking of the loo, why did so many co-workers (I mean you, ladies) abstain from squatting? You would have thought you were in an elementary school bathroom by the dangling feet and pants around the ankles visible from under the bathroom stall doors. Gross. Nothing bothered me more.

A Millennial's Muse — Part 11: A Yuppie Turns One

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

It's the day after Christmas. I can't imagine that many people are even reading this (though I hope so bad that you are). So, let's just cut to the chase.

What's in a Name?

At an all-company meeting, the CEO announced that assistants (my rank at the time) in the company did essential work and functioned at levels higher than assistants at other companies. "So," announced just another phony in Washington, "we've decided to change the title of Assistant to Associate; it should make you feel valued and better about coming to work each day."

Call me crazy (and some have), but wouldn't validating our work with fair pay (even close to fair) be more effective and make us feel like we weren't being used?

Corporate Report Card

Shortly after the title change shenanigans, I had my annual review with Magnum and was promoted from Assistant to Senior Assistant. I mean Senior Associate. How could I let that one slip? I must have self-esteem issues and deep rooted feelings of inadequacy. Right…

I got a raise which equaled an amount I should have been earning since day one (1!). Magnum was excited for my promotion and seemed a little surprised at my inertia, that being limp body language (as if she had shot me) and a can-I-go-now? expression.

The one critique bestowed upon me was that I occasionally seemed "defensive" when asked to do things I didn't feel comfortable doing. First of all, I'm a 5'2" woman and therefore an easy target; I must always be defensive. Perhaps this is a result of being harassed daily while a resident of Brussels. But that's a whole other narrative.

Magnum's criticism related to my discomfort with assembling online learning courses, including the synchronization of elaborate presentations with sound bytes, learning games, and other technical elements I've since blocked from my memory. Well, yes, as a SOCIOLOGY major, I didn't think it was appropriate for me to be doing something highly technical with basically no training. To my defense (since I seem to be good at that), the IT staff members also had difficulty with the online learning software and validated my frustrations (read: offered me tissues).

I responded to Magnum's criticism with, "I'm a trained social thinker. I never professed to have technical skills beyond checking my email."

I was praised for my communication and customer service skills with clients (if she only knew that I silently cursed them dead throughout the day). Magnum also gave me high marks for quenching the dissatisfaction she felt with regard to her social life.

For example: "Jackie, the women in my neighborhood created a book club but didn't include me; I want a book club!" Magnum said with a desperate and vicious tone.

At the time of my annual review, we were reading the third selection from the company book club I created for her. To this day, it's no wonder why I suffer from battered corporate syndrome.

Happy Holidays From the Company That Neglects to Pay You Fairly

They didn't pay a livable wage, but my former company knew how to throw one heck of a party. My date to the company holiday party was my sister, Julie. Story of my life. A fine date she was, except for insisting that I checked to make sure nothing was in her teeth after each hors d'oeuvres she sampled.

My night consisted of saying things such as: Two teeth to the right. No, no your other right. You got it! It's a small seed; no one will be able to see it. No, Julie, I'm not sticking my finger in your mouth in front of my co-workers.

How Sweet it Wasn't

For the annual holiday baking competition, yours truly was chosen to be one of three mystery judges; a dream realized, my friends. Or so I thought.

I agreed to the pastry-gun-to-my-head therefore I must taste everything twice proposition before taking some vacation time. When I returned to work, the baking competition organizer (dream crusher) said that I was replaced because she couldn't find me to confirm. Umm, is this a dentist appointment? So much for my track record of being friends with everyone in the company.

Spreading Rumors

En route to the communal kitchen, I passed Trevor, the IT guy who had been employed at the company for over eight years. The average length of stay was around one (1!) year. Trevor had seen a lot in his tenure, which was why I was surprised that he seemed so surprised when I threw my arms out to the side and said, "I quit," while walking by him. I just wanted to see what it felt like to say it.

Wishing you a new year full of happy,
Jackie

A Millennial's Muse — Part 10: Who Moved My Neighbor?

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

During that beloved, quiet period before the holidays when half of the office was gone and all seemed relatively peaceful, I experienced a corporate slap in the face. It was uncalled for. It was callous. It was just plain dirty.

Not Without My Neighbor

I walked over to Neighbor's cubicle after Magnum delivered news that would rock my corporate existence.

Me: "Neighbor…I have some bad news."
Neighbor: "What is it, Neighborette?"?

Me: "I'm being forced to relocate to a cubicle on another floor (Neighbor's face dropped).

Me: "Can I sit down in your cube for a little while?"
Neighbor: "Sit and never leave."

Then I cried tears from the depths of my neighborly heart. (You think I'm kidding?)

"Here, Neighborette," she said, handing me a crinkled, partially used napkin with some raisin bran muffin residue from her breakfast (Neighbor loved bran).

Wiping the tears (and simultaneously contaminating my pores), I said, "I can't do it without you, Neighbor."

Neighbor: "We should quit."
Me: "I see no other option."

In the days that followed, we took our remaining time together seriously.

Me: "Neighbor…?"
Neighbor: "Yeah?"
Me: "Just making sure."

Me: "Neighbor…?"
Neighbor: "Yes, Neighborette?"
Me: "You're the neighbor of my dreams."
Neighbor: "Right back at ya."

Neighbor: "Neighborette, do you want to borrow my calculator?"?

Typing mailing labels and doing nothing related to computation, I said, "Sure, Neighbor…thanks for asking."

When I left my cubicle for the last time, I took a good, hard look at my barren desk – the overhead cabinets void of magnets and photos – and my swivel chair haphazardly situated between the desk and rear partition. I felt like I was looking at a crime scene.

Sitting in my new cubicle, I had that first day of school feeling when you don't even feel comfortable in your own desk. So this is what resettlement feels like, I thought to myself.

Diet Coke Demise

I tried to limit my soda intake, but a walk to the soda machine was precious time away from my cubicle. Diet Coke purchase #1 – the machine ate my money. I was left thirsty and felt defeated, viewing the experience as a metaphor for how I felt about my job.

In the days following, I saw people around the office drinking soda so I decided to give it another shot. Diet Coke purchase #2 – again a vending machine victim. Then I became angry and felt the onset of tears. For those who have ever been unhappy at a job, you know it wasn't about the money.

Annie from "Office Services" happened to be in the kitchen at the time of my being robbed.

"Annie, the machine ate my money."

Annie felt bad, but said that Office Services didn't handle the vending machines, and I should leave a note on the machine for the person who restocks it.

So the word "Service" in Office Services stands for what?

I went back to my cubicle, sat down and announced to surrounding co-workers, "The machine ate my money." I never thought I was the type of person to do this, but I went back to that machine with a note in hand that read, "I lost $1.30 in this machine. Please call Ext. 2479 or see Cubicle #7006," and taped it to the front.

Days later, I got my money back. Then I was the Diet Coke champion.

Love is in the Cubicle Air (not mine)

Switching cubicles gave me a new cubicle community (one I could have happily lived without). The cubicle dweller across the stained, carpeted walkway from me was quite loquacious and spoke to her mom at least four times during the day. Her vocal chords really seized the day after she-yaps-a-lot got engaged. Twenty-three years old, her first serious relationship, and they met online. I'm not judging (yes I am). I'm not.

The day following the engagement, I listened to her tell the proposal story at least 15 times – four times to her mom. They picnicked on the National Mall, he brought her favorite foods (one being falafel), and popped the question in hot pink icing on a chocolate cake (chocolate ice cream chocolate cake). She cried. If I heard correctly, and I believe I did, she "bawled."

Ain't no sunshine when Neighbor's gone,
Jackie