There is an oft-written, age-old blogging rule that states:
Thou shalt not blog about work.
I have lived by this rule of thumb since beginning this venture, though I have certainly discussed my travel schedule, as well as vague company events. And still, I won't really post about my profession. I won't name the industry; nor the company; nor any of my coworkers.
I will, however, tell you that after 2.5 years on the job, I was informed that I am not quite qualified to...
Do my own job, in a slightly more senior capacity. That is, not quite learned enough to explain to people what I do and how I do it.
Dejected, I was informed that there was indeed a light at the end of this proverbial tunnel: I am still regarded as a valuable part of the team.
Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? I am bowled over. You actually value my work? Gee, that's incredible, and quite the coup!
(I did try desperately not to let this biting sarcasm seap into the aforementioned conversation. I am sure I failed miserably.)
It absolutely pains me to write these words.
I'm used to being good, thank you very much.
On the phone, I could feel my voice quaking in that way I abhor; I was about to burst into tears. Attempting to speak clearly, I bravely muttered that I wanted to "digest" this information and decide how I wanted to proceed.
I hung up and as my eyes welled, I called J.
I forgot he was in a meeting. I emailed Grace.
Then I put on my sneakers, grabbed my keys and my iPod, and headed out for a frappucino.
Jamiroquai buzzed in my ears that there really was nothing left for me to do but dance, all these bad times I'm going through. Canned heat in my heels tonight, y'all.
Despite myself, I smiled in the blinding sunlight. The eternal optimist in me thought, Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be.
Channeling that intriguing Lost episode that featured Desmond (That creepy old lady: "You don't buy the ring! You break Penny's heart and then you enter that boat race and then you end up on that island and then you press that damn button!") Perhaps I am supposed to get angry and frustrated. Perhaps I am supposed to finally move on and do something great.
Delicious caramel drink in hand, I headed back to the house to "digest" (fucking work-speak) my predicament and make some difficult decisions.
I am sure J will shoot this down, but how about "I'm just not gonna go anymore."