The Universe Will Do For You What You Won't Do For Yourself

Ok, here's the skinny --

So I've been taking these miniscule little baby steps to get myself back out into the job market -- halfhearted calls to a couple of headhunters, updating my resume on some job search sites, responding to the occasional ad. It never hurts to see what's out there, right?

2006 was a pretty grim year, jobwise, what with selling my soul down the river to the highest bidder (thirty pieces of silver was the quoted price, I believe). Sorry for the mixed metaphor. Spent six months asquirm in a quagmire of bad management, a grim, humorless and not-brainy-enough-for-me workplace (some days I wondered if any of my coworkers had ever read a book), and a persistent feeling of unease, nearly from Day 1, that I had made a dreadful, dreadful mistake.

If it don't fit, don't force it, honey.

About a month or so ago, I gave up. I just stopped giving a shit. And well, when you don't give a shit, you don't give a shit, right? I believe these words actually left my lips when a job left the shop a day late: "Did anyone die because of this? Are we curing cancer here?" While I commend myself for my Big Picture perspicacity, it's one of those things that you probably shouldn't say to your boss.

On the other hand, I had this one client, who from what I learned on Monday has not been happy for months. Funny, no one saw fit to tell me about it. Ever. In fact, a few months ago, the report that I got was that this client was perfectly happy with things. And the salespeople in the company I worked with seemed to love me. In fact, the emails I've gotten after the fact from two of them have attested to that.

Net-net -- I got canned with extreme prejudice on Monday -- no performance reviews along the way despite my having requested one (in writing), no severance, and after 6-1/2 months, I wonder if I'm even eligible for unemployment. Funny how this happened just a few short weeks after I made a formal grievance to human resources about the "gender issue" at the company, after speaking directly to my manager at least three times about it, and having him acknowledge that four female production people left the company before I was hired FOR THE VERY SAME REASON.

Not to worry, Janey's got an appointment with the EEOC. Just exploratory, you see.

Strangely enough, I feel okay. I mean, my money situation just sucks right now, and it's decidedly weird to wake up and not have a job to go to, but I feel oddly liberated. Like the jailhouse doors were open, the golden handcuffs were yanked from my wrists, and I was pushed back out into the world. "And stay out!" yelled the warden.

But...the funny thing is that when the rug is yanked out from under your feet, you'll find all the things that you had swept underneath it. So I've put on my babushka, rolled up my sleeves and I'm getting down to work. Time to find out what it is that I really want to do with this one very short life I've been given.

How strange to have -- not exactly fear, but a feeling that absolutely anything is possible.

I mean, if I could find my frickin' social security card at the bottom of a box of papers (after going through four boxes of papers), I can pretty much do anything.

And while I was cleaning out those boxes, I found a photograph of myself. It was taken on one of the best days of my life -- the end of the first day of my very first AIDS Ride. I had ridden my bike from Boston to Storrs, Connecticut that day, the last 8 miles uphill. 98 miles, the furthest I had ever ridden in my life in one day. I am sitting in the doorway of my tent, still in my bike clothes, sweaty bandanna on my head, shoes off, and a cigarette between my fingers. I am smiling so hard it looks like my face is about to explode.

I remember how I felt at the end of that day -- I was bold and brave, and in the photograph, I am beautiful.

Now, I can get to work finding that girl again.