Alternately titled, "Adult Challenges in a Fucked Up World"
I received some disconcerting news at work today, which should come as no surprise considering the economic climate as a whole and what I know of my own organization's financial dynamics. Without getting into too many specifics, I'll be making ever-so-slightly less than what I was making.
The pill becomes difficult to swallow when one feels, as I do right now, as though they are performing better professionally than they ever have before. Leave it to a stubborn contrarian like me to produce like Japan in the eighties when my company and the rest of the economy is floundering like Guatemala in every decade. So I understand. I get it. It still sucks.
By nature and by nurture I've been raised on principles of social fairness, pacifism, and equality. By circumstance and-or genetics I've gravitated towards thought-by-profit, competitiveness, and justification via my main man Darwin for anything that can be justified through said main man.
So here I am, looking people dead in the eye, telling them they can't work for me anymore. It's a business decision, I say, and I ain't lying. But my inner-bleeding heart still can't help but fight the slightest sensation of nausea, knowing that I just took a chicken breast out of the freezer or an ounce of weed out of the bong (disclosure: I hire mostly college students, which mitigates the dire nature of my decision making... somewhat).
And I step away, knowing, er, thinking, um, hoping that these decisions pay off for the organization, and pay off for me, the new-aged capitalist with a soft spot for the afflicted and a genuine longing that all of this is justified in the end to meet some as-yet-to-be-determined end. But the doubt lingers.
What the hell am I getting at? In order for me to continue to have make money, I have to make less money, and I have to tell some people that they are done making money for me. Ouchie. But there is no other way, I tell myself, and I'm getting closer to believing it, as I brush off resentment like dandruff and swallow pride like it's ecstacy at a gay Austrian rave.
And I have to keep producing. I have to run my jobs. I can't let my original, years in the making, carefully crafted facade, that of the overgrown college kid that can be your friend but is still your boss, the dude with a mind for logistic creativity and an affinity for big words out of context that sometimes lands the big contract, I can't let that facade crumble. Even if the inside is screaming and crying and getting all passive-aggressive on that ass, the outside must remain steadfast and firm and funny. The paint job that is the three-day stubble and one-size-too-tight t-shirt must not chip or peel, revealing the conflicted mess within.
It would be unfair for me to cry foul now, not when my old bosses have been laid off and my co-workers had their hours and pay slashed and my higher-ups are dealing with my same set of challenges, yet to people with families and mortgages and all that jazz. What is fair is not what is necessary, what is necessary is certainly not always fair. It wasn't fair for me to make $800 a weekend five years ago when working in a similar capacity I mauled a company job based on inexperience and ineptitude. It probably wasn't necessary for a transportation company to hold on to a loose cannon with a DUI when his division went oh-for-ten on proposals last year. It might not be fair that I am looking at myself and some of my compadres treading water in the face of one of our largest, most prestigious, and profitable (in the micro-sense) gigs. But fuck it. I know it's necessary.
After all, I am a team player (ask my softball team after I slide head first into home just to tie the score against Kenilworth, ask the guys I play hoops with- the best YMCA game I played all season long I played the whole game, took two shots, and defended and rebounded and set picks- we won). And I'm a socialist, too.
Back in 1995, I only led my baseball team in one category: sacrifice bunts. I'm laying another one down, but this time I'm gonna try to beat it out. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be safe, score the winning run, and the team will win in the end.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Back to School, But Did I Ever Leave?
The internal clock propels me out of bed at 6:40am, ten minutes before the cell phone override alarm blasts some imitation Bach telling me it's really time to start the day. After this morning workout (sit-ups, one set, one rep) I cool off by walking to the bathroom, where I stand nude in front of the mirror at my uncle Jim's old house in Grandview, the years forcing the slow descent of my eyelids into the realm of my great-grandma Hagan, gravity weighing heaviliy on the outside, delusions of gravitas bouncing about on the inside.
I pluck the grays that line my beard and temples diligently, each singular pull revealing two more offending whites. The strength of my will and the longing for a youthful facade are no match for these insurgent foreshadowers of old age. After about a dozen pulls, I retreat from this quixotic battle.
My chest is covered in the most exotic of furs, the Irish-Italian brunette blend, a curly confluence of testosterone and genetic freakiness. The years have not left well enough alone, as they view my shoulders, back, and ass as fresh pulpits in which to spread their gospel of folicle proliferation. (Go ahead, mix your metaphors, bitch, and I'll mix mine.)
I'm still relatively trim and debatably fit, the body giving little outward indication of the self-inflicted and outsourced abuse it has absorbed over three decades. But my knees crack with every step, my right shoulder has limited range of motion, and my wrists, ankles, and feet occasionally scream, "you fucked me over too!"
One thing I've learned is that these "ailments" are very minor and will only get worse. Such is the joy of aging. So for now, I give the mirror one last "hi and howarya?", and unleash a snarl-sneer-wink combination that still melts my inner-Narcissus. Brush the tizzlers, slap on some deodio, and let's attack the day.
Work takes me to college campuses all over the country, and now I'm doing the Ohio State Thing (I WILL NOT CAPITALIZE "the" in the Ohio State University until my alma mater is renamed "The Muthafuckin Ohio University" or "The Shit"). The kids I hire have remarkably similar interests and maturity in relation to me, though I fear that this is more of an indictment on my hobbies and sources of joy than it is a vindication of America's Youth. They are burdened with the triviality of youthful circumstance, and only by glancing in the rear-view do I realize how innocent and endearing these problems are. Your girlfriend left you? Sorry bud, at least you're not on the hook for a $1200 a month house payment. You're missing your bestie's birthday bash for a family obligation? Sucks for you, try spending five consecutive birthdays of your own in five different states, just so you can pay that Lowe's bill for the dryer, ceiling fans, and lawn mower.
Lest I sound woe is me, this is more woe is old. I still get down. I don't have any kids, so my rueful rants will undoubtedly ring hollow for those with children and-or those with a preponderance of gray hairs on their head.
And so I stare at the blonde girl browsing books in the stacks, not a stare that will put me on some state-wide database with my picture on it and require the county to send a mailing to my neighbors letting them know that a guy like me happens to live in your community, but a gentle stare of longing and appreciation. The human form, in full. The bloom of youth, freaking blooming.
My journey today has taken me from the bed to the bathroom to the workplace, and not many tangible locations in between (other than KFC). But Introspection Boulevard has a plenty of points of interest on it, and I know I've been on that all day.
And then it happens, I catch eyes with blondy. I give her a slight snarl-sneer-wink combo. She smiles back. Maybe she likes me. Or maybe she's just intrigued by the descending eyelids on the bearded old guy. Or maybe none of it matters and she is being awkwardly polite in a "don't put me in an unmarked van and force me to live at the bottom of a well at an abandoned farmhouse outside of Coshocton" sort of way. I'll guess we'll never know. But still...
Where are my tweezers? I've got grays to pull. I'll be in the bathroom if you need me.
I pluck the grays that line my beard and temples diligently, each singular pull revealing two more offending whites. The strength of my will and the longing for a youthful facade are no match for these insurgent foreshadowers of old age. After about a dozen pulls, I retreat from this quixotic battle.
My chest is covered in the most exotic of furs, the Irish-Italian brunette blend, a curly confluence of testosterone and genetic freakiness. The years have not left well enough alone, as they view my shoulders, back, and ass as fresh pulpits in which to spread their gospel of folicle proliferation. (Go ahead, mix your metaphors, bitch, and I'll mix mine.)
I'm still relatively trim and debatably fit, the body giving little outward indication of the self-inflicted and outsourced abuse it has absorbed over three decades. But my knees crack with every step, my right shoulder has limited range of motion, and my wrists, ankles, and feet occasionally scream, "you fucked me over too!"
One thing I've learned is that these "ailments" are very minor and will only get worse. Such is the joy of aging. So for now, I give the mirror one last "hi and howarya?", and unleash a snarl-sneer-wink combination that still melts my inner-Narcissus. Brush the tizzlers, slap on some deodio, and let's attack the day.
Work takes me to college campuses all over the country, and now I'm doing the Ohio State Thing (I WILL NOT CAPITALIZE "the" in the Ohio State University until my alma mater is renamed "The Muthafuckin Ohio University" or "The Shit"). The kids I hire have remarkably similar interests and maturity in relation to me, though I fear that this is more of an indictment on my hobbies and sources of joy than it is a vindication of America's Youth. They are burdened with the triviality of youthful circumstance, and only by glancing in the rear-view do I realize how innocent and endearing these problems are. Your girlfriend left you? Sorry bud, at least you're not on the hook for a $1200 a month house payment. You're missing your bestie's birthday bash for a family obligation? Sucks for you, try spending five consecutive birthdays of your own in five different states, just so you can pay that Lowe's bill for the dryer, ceiling fans, and lawn mower.
Lest I sound woe is me, this is more woe is old. I still get down. I don't have any kids, so my rueful rants will undoubtedly ring hollow for those with children and-or those with a preponderance of gray hairs on their head.
And so I stare at the blonde girl browsing books in the stacks, not a stare that will put me on some state-wide database with my picture on it and require the county to send a mailing to my neighbors letting them know that a guy like me happens to live in your community, but a gentle stare of longing and appreciation. The human form, in full. The bloom of youth, freaking blooming.
My journey today has taken me from the bed to the bathroom to the workplace, and not many tangible locations in between (other than KFC). But Introspection Boulevard has a plenty of points of interest on it, and I know I've been on that all day.
And then it happens, I catch eyes with blondy. I give her a slight snarl-sneer-wink combo. She smiles back. Maybe she likes me. Or maybe she's just intrigued by the descending eyelids on the bearded old guy. Or maybe none of it matters and she is being awkwardly polite in a "don't put me in an unmarked van and force me to live at the bottom of a well at an abandoned farmhouse outside of Coshocton" sort of way. I'll guess we'll never know. But still...
Where are my tweezers? I've got grays to pull. I'll be in the bathroom if you need me.
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