Finally, I can say it. The job search is going…WELL.
Because it is over.
Four Five Weeks ago—and 360 days after I had last been on an official payroll; 360 days of worry, stress, envy, frustration, anger, fear, confusion, desperation, and the occasional dip into depression; 360 days of rudderless screen time, searching and scrolling, interrupted too often by snack time, the ultimate quick fix of boredom; after 360 goddamn days—I logged onto the computer as a member of a team with a mission and a portfolio of exceptional programs (and a budget!). I am working!
So let’s pivot and talk about when I—no, We—can stop working. For good.
I know! Preposterous! I have written a few thousand words (with, I hope, many more to come) and commanded your valuable time to talk about the plight of my unemployment, the smack of ageism, the need in my life for purpose, my identity as a worker and contributor, the love I had for my last job.
And now retirement is on my mind?
Well, yes and no. To underscore, I am super excited about the new job. I feel unbelievably fortunate to have landed where I have. The work is challenging, intellectual, fast paced, and extremely relevant to our world. My values align with the organization and, as far as I can tell, my new teammates. It’s an excellent place to be.
And I also have to think about what a post-work world looks like. We all do.
I feel like I had a near death-of-your-career experience. No, it wasn’t an oasis of white light in the distance. Rather, it was the contemplation of freelancing, endless hustle, seasonal work, less pay, shitty or expensive health insurance forever. I had so many people assure me that I would find a great job, that it was out there, that I needed to be patient. You were right! But, also, I doubted you.
I had read too many stories of people who couldn’t nudge their way back into their field. They were my age, they were educated, they had achieved. And they were screwed.
So I bring that reckoning into this new chapter. I will work my ass off. With a little more than a month under my belt (what does that mean, under one’s belt?), I know I can make this organization stronger, and I’m excited about that. Despite all that has passed, I somehow feel more confident about my skillz (to the point that I'll ironically misspell words). I know what I know.
I also know that I am not my job, my profession. Or, at least, I don’t want to be. That felt harder this past year. Without a job, I was a bit lost. Okay, more than a bit.
For starters, I didn’t have that foundational structure to each day. I didn’t have a comfortable way to explain my newfound availability. I had the excuse—this goddamn never-ending nightmare of a presidency—which found much sympathy. But I still felt, somehow, culpable, embarrassed to be on the dole.
That is not healthy.
I also don’t have a consuming passion firing all my intellectual and emotional pistons. I am constantly perplexed to learn about people who seem to not want to not work. We read about them, they are politicians and judges and business magnates. Sometimes they hang on by a thread, other times they appear to be crushing it in their relentless pursuit of workplace achievement.
Can we project their motivations? Proximity to power, a sense of control, attention, attaining a long-sought goal, status, gobs of money. That is cynical, I know, but there’s a hell of a lot of truth, too.
But then look at this lovely 95-year-old piano teacher, who just loves the freaking piano. I hope she never quits.
Mostly, though, those never-quit motivations are beyond me.
So even as I immerse myself into the work-life matrix again, I know it’s healthy for me to think about not working, imagining what it will look like, what I will do, and, most importantly, when it can happen.
The tension there is probably around cold hard cash and a young man named Max. Our boy just started high school. So we’ve got four years to stash some cabbage for another four (or five) years of big tab education, no matter how you slice it, private or public college, in-state or far afield, and we have to do that while pumping funds into our respective retirement plans in hopes that the financial markets don’t implode under the weight of this reckless buffoon’s policy decisions so that we might have some coffers—my goodness, we need some coffers—that can sustain us for another 20 years…and maybe more.
So if everything goes perfectly—but without a PowerBall win or some other magical windfall—The Number is 9. Nine more years of work…or two years longer than I’ve ever spent at any one job.
That feels both daunting and a kinda short period of time.
Here’s what will make each of those nine years increasingly tough. I suspect I will be on the later side among my crew. Our legend Billy Reay retired this year—though I suspect he will slide back into something teaching adjacent because he loves it. A couple Massachusetts homies are threatening that this is their last year of grinding. And I believe every other longtime friend, save one Jersey lover, has kids younger than mine and thus will be clear of six-figure tuitions far sooner than I.
So I’m waiting for it, my friends’ announcements, their new liberties, the travel plans, the opportunities for adventure I can’t yet seize. I’m mentally preparing for envy, for FOMO as I push onward, still motivated to work hard, to do a good job, to be part of something greater. I do it all newly aware of how easily one’s career and livelihood can be pulled away from you.
I’m grateful for what I’ve got. With an eye on 9.
What is your number? Lemme know. We should be talking about it.