There is a shocking moment when you settle into your first
job. Chances are if you have high expectations for yourself, your first job is
not your dream job. Far from it. Few people attend universities to become Xerox
Sales Representatives or Clinique Counter Attendants. No, I think when you land
that first job after school, chances are you still have some romantic notions
of the job that was made for you, the job you deserve because you want it so
badly. I myself had a grand idea of a career in media, eventually working as a
Communications Director for a Senator or something like that. In hindsight,
what I wanted was a role on the West Wing,
but moving on…
To be
frank, I didn’t see myself working as a recruiter. I never realized there were
people who basically worked as professional middle men, but economic facts are
a tough pill to swallow when you hit 25. All of a sudden, the content of a
career can really become secondary to not having to use a credit card with your
dad’s name on it, or being able to have health insurance that isn’t provided by
an Obamacare law. There is a satisfaction that comes from providing for oneself,
that on a good day can supersede the fact that you are one of the millions of
Bachelors holding schmoes who are working nine to five.
You’ve
probably also realized that nine to five is a myth perpetuated by baby boomers
who actually worked those hours. Eight to six is what I’ve come to know. No one
gets paid for their lunch hour, and if you want to get ahead and keep the
threats of “paying for your desk” down to a manageable din, you’d better be on
time and stay late. You don’t keep a handle of your favorite gin in your desk
drawer because Mad Men is fiction.
You don’t sit catty corner to the cute receptionist who everyone knows you’ll eventually marry. Chances
are you’ll sit next to friendly people who you have to work to find
commonality, and you’ll become work friends, a nice enough arrangement built on
vague ideas of their personal lives and an encyclopedic knowledge of where they
will and will not eat on lunch break.
What
I’m thankful for amidst all this lukewarm grumbling is a chance to do something
that’s redeeming. I’m not selling pharmaceuticals (read: pieces of my immortal
soul), living off my parents, and my job involves getting people working and
job needs filled. I think the romance of the dream job is easily lost, but more
easily replaced with the realization that your job is not the best way to live
a dream. It’s a sad part of the American mindset that whatever you make and
whatever it says underneath your name on your business card is the largest part
of you. I say this knowing full well that I spend more time in a cube in an
Atlanta-adjacent office than anywhere else, but my time doesn’t make me the
person I am. Your employer should count himself lucky to have the sum total of
your thoughts, experiences, and insight for 40-50 hours a week. It’s the person
you bring to that installed desk and phone headset that is important.
So
drink the kool-aid for the people that pay you, but don’t get drunk. Get that
job, show up, work hard, do what they want, but don’t slip into that scary
place of not knowing who you are outside of your toll free number and company
email. After all, Don Draper, Toby Ziegler, and Jim Halpert are just waiting
for you on Netflix back at your 2BR 2BA slice of moderate maturity.
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