Stories We Tell Ourselves

There’s something about a rainy September Monday morning that’s comforting. The solace of not feeling like you need to be outdoors doing something fun. The fading memories of a well-played weekend, a gray haze blanketing the sky, the first hint of autumn gently painting the oak trees…all topped by a sip of a perfectly made latte. This makes me smile. 

No one is in the office yet, at least no one can be heard.

Probably all hunkered down in their cubes safely social distancing or maybe they’re working remotely today.

I don’t care. It’s quiet.

The pre-COVID world of the typical morning chatter that previously permeated the corridors filled with co-workers catching up, politely feigning interest in others’ stories, avoiding demanding emails, or casually procrastinating before heading into another likely unnecessary meeting—it’s all a haunting memory.

At least the economy is strong, right? People have jobs, even if

most are tucked away in their make-shift home offices; except for us few that dread the isolation.

It’s a new reality.

But today, reality is on pause.

I’m grateful to idly be scrolling through online news, sipping my latte, comforted by the gray skies, in an attempt to delay the start of my day.

Geez, who approves the news flows? So contrary in nature.

We have teens becoming TikTok millionaires followed by the plight of our world due to COVID-19; the news of the billionaire space race competing for attention with the strain on our medical personnel; the mindless activity of the Kardashians leading into the rising fear and contention between the vaccinated and unvaccinated; and lest we forget the J. Lo and Ben Affleck reunion proceeded by the global supply chain disruptions. Either of which could turn into sequels be it the “Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2021” or the “Great Romance Returns”.

Silly!  

Granted life as we know it doesn’t seem to make much sense these past 20 months. It’s hard to unravel the truth from lies, and no one can tell us the plot of this M. Night Shyamalan meets Tyler Perry scripted world we now inhabit.

Perhaps I’m jaded by 55 years of past experiences, desperately

hanging onto hope despite the world changing around us; wedged between the aging baby boomers and the “I want to be rich and internet famous” millennials, particularly in today’s corporate environment. Living and working as a member of the forgotten generation. The Gen-Xers. The silent minority. Well, it's daunting. And it’s pointless and rather depressing to lament over the woes of

learning to tolerate being ignored and having to accept, and adopt, the new social mores or be left behind.

My existential daze on an otherwise perfect Monday morning is

interrupted by the relentless dings of new emails begging for my attention.

I glance at my computer screen and notice a meeting invite

scheduled for this morning, sent from Human Resources, marked URGENT, staring at me from my inbox. It’s from the general email account, not even an actual person.

Seriously?

On a perfect hazy Monday morning. This is how my peace will end today.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

How in the hell do I change email notification settings?

My computer awaits its demise of being tossed through my office

window, which only moments ago was framing the most idyllic vignette of water-colored-painted oak trees.

How dare this ominous invitation bully me from my inbox, today of all days. This is harassment!

The calendar invite is vague considering its urgency, inviting me

to a ten-minute meeting in a half-hour. Well, now twenty minutes, no thanks to my delay. No description or purpose. Just ten short, stressful minutes with HR.

What’s accomplished in ten minutes? What could I have possibly done to have elicited this curt invite? It’s not year-end. I haven’t had an altercation with a co-worker. I haven’t even asked for a day off. Oh great, layoffs, yup, they want me out. Get rid of the old-timers. Clean house.

I have people I can call. Jessica Stephens, Travis Jones…what

the hell was that other recruiter’s name, Devin something? What about Peter? Yes, he’ll help me. He was always my favorite boss.

Thank God, I already paid this month’s rent.

Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead, puddling in my eyelids,

slightly blurring my vision.

Is this a hot flash or am I having a heart attack?

If I have to move in with my father, the suicide hotline will be on speed dial.

Breathe.

And no more gym memberships. Nope. Time to take out the fat

pants hidden in the back of my closet because meals will consist of 2-for-1 fast food orders, which I’ll shamelessly eat in my car so my neighbors don’t witness my walk of shame carrying take-out food bags from Popeye’s. Organic vegetables and free-range chicken from Whole Foods are a luxury never to be known again.

The sage advice I got 15 years ago about taking my retirement

planning seriously, instead of relying on my backup plan of marrying rich the second time, well, that was an opportunity missed.

Wait, is my Match.com profile still active? Maybe there’s hope.

Knock! Knock!

I’m startled by the uninvited co-worker standing at my office

door, annoyed that he interrupted my silent neurotic rant.

God, what’s his name? Or does he prefer “they”? I don’t think we

ever officially met, let alone know his preferred pronouns. He’s all of 33 years old, maybe, with the douche man bun sitting precariously on top of his head, wrapped in a bright blue scrunchie, and his commercial-ready Colgate smile peeking out from this hipster beard.

Is he actually wearing shorts and Birkenstock sandals to work? I

am definitely too old for this and him, or maybe I’ve become too much of a cynic.

“Oops, my bad, did I scare you? Where were you just now?” he

asks curiously with a smirk.

The silence lingers in the air between us like stale cigarette

smoke.

“Hey, you. Nowhere, just planning my day,” I reply reluctantly,

not sure what to call him.

“Got it. Well, good luck.” And he walks away, leaving me with my

now shattered perfectly silent Monday. 

Good luck? Why do I need luck? Shit. He knows about the HR

meeting. But how? He works in IT, right? He must read the emails. Not like they’d put him in front of clients, would they?

Now only ten minutes to go before I meet my fate. But what fate?

Seriously what did I do? I never even got called to the principal’s office. I’ll prepare for this and will make a list of everything I’ve been working on. I’ll collect emails from colleagues and coworkers about their satisfaction with my work. I will prepare the “fight for my life” speech.

Where’s my freakin’ resume? 

Will I have time to find it before I’m escorted out of the building, so I can send it to Devin, whatever the hell his last name is…damn! I’m not ready to face the rejection I’ll get after applying to jobs that are ultimately sent into the abyss of ATS scans only to be responded to by a “no-reply” email and a “thanks, but you’re not a fit.”

Can someone with a pulse actually review my qualifications or at

the least someone who was not in diapers at the time of the President Clinton-Monica Lewinsky scandal?

A job search at this age is nearly impossible. My couch,

lounging in sweats, drinking lattes, and binging on Netflix. Yup, that should have been my day today.  

I don’t love my job, but I don’t hate my job either. Maybe I should

be fired.

My heart pumping through my blouse, my mind racing through an unhealthy labyrinth of self-defeat. I’m now reconsidering whether the protein bar buried in the bottom of my handbag would have kept the acid now forming in my stomach from rising. Someone needs to give me an epic Moonstruck bitch-slap before I completely unravel.

What time is it now?  

My latte cup is as empty as my gut. Yogic breathing exercises

are only making me dizzy and nauseous.

Thank you very much, Harmony! Your woo-woo, hippy-dippy, tree-hugging, you’re a protected child of the universe bullshit is, well, bullshit! How’s that going to help me now other than my knowing how to meditate while I collect rainwater to drink and bathe after I become homeless living in a tent city?

Screw this company! They need me, right? No worries here. If

they fire me, I’ll sue for agism, wrongful dismissal of employment, unnecessary infliction of emotional distress. Didn’t I once get sexually harassed?

I'll counteract with an element of surprise. I got this.  

My attorney friend will be on speed dial. David will get my call

the minute this meeting ends. Hell, I’ll call him while I’m sitting there. Make them sweat. Do they think they can threaten me with job loss? Nothing says “screw you” like a lawsuit.

Maybe Gloria Allred will back my legal crusade. Power to the

feminists!

Is the #metoo movement still a thing?

The five-minute countdown begins, as I start my green mile walk

down the hall, ironically carpeted in shades of green. I never noticed that before; and I don’t appreciate the irony.

I try to remember a good fight song to help strengthen my courage, disappointed that I never ate my last meal, even if it was a stale, crumbled protein bar.

Lyrics bounce around my head, “Don’t look back a new day is breaking, it’s been too long since I felt this way…but it feels so empty without me.”

Wow, what a hack lyrical master!

Is the hallway getting longer, darker? Are all the lights off? 

Still sweating, I check my pulse to ensure it's in fact not a heart attack.

My gaze remains fixed on what seems like the longest 50-feet of

a darkened hallway, with its irritating green carpet mocking me with each step, as I walk past the few co-workers that are masked up, quiet, and safely distancing at their desks.

Were they staring at me?

It’s eerie in here! Maybe I should ask to be fired.

I have a few bucks saved. I could find something more fulfilling or spend my time looking for my next, hopefully rich, husband. After all, a well-trained monkey, or perhaps a millennial, could do my job, maybe better, definitely cheaper.

Ok. I’m ready for this.

One last step and a deep breath positions me a foot from HR’s

door, wishing I was rocking a black, well-tailored power suit like we wore in the 90s. Although it would look ridiculously out of place in contrast to my co-workers who took the concept of casual business attire too far as if they were on their way to a family BBQ, every day.

The HR girl, she/her/they, looks up and smiles, motioning for me to come into her office before I have a chance to knock. Definitely a millennial. Probably was just posting a selfie on Instagram, I mean “Insta”. I wonder how many followers she has?

“Please take a seat. How are you doing this morning?” she asks

rather cavalierly considering she’s about to change my life.

Damn, what was her name? Tiffany? … Amanda? ... Candace? Yes, Candace. That’s it.

Remaining silent, I keep my anxiety hidden behind a tight, thin

smile, followed by a slow, gentle nod to indicate some degree of my acceptance mixed with concern. How am I doing?!? Pfft!

“Well, Candace”— wishing desperately my tirade had an audience

other than she— “I’ve nearly called 911 three times waiting for this meeting. I’ve contemplated quitting, being fired, suing you, destroying company property, and possibly, although I don’t have much clarity at this point, driving my car into the Grand Canyon to make a dramatic exit worthy of an Oscar. I’m freakin’ pissah!”

Then an awkward silence.

“Oh my god, you’re so funny, have you ever thought of doing

stand-up, you’d would be totally awesome.”

While the symphony of sarcasm, or apparently comedic routine, erases any previous sense of calm, rational thought I owned 20-minutes ago, she places a manila folder in front of me.

Great, here it is, my dismissal letter and I’ll need to sign it, and also perhaps, a harassment complaint.  

She gently flips it open and slowly pulls out a form.

Am I being gaslighted?

Speak, Candace. Say something, freakin’ blink and stop smiling!

A form? What’s this? If they think I’m signing this now,

they’re crazy. I need my lawyer. Where’s my phone? Damn, I forgot it in my office. Senior moment. I should just quit. Social security will kick in eventually. Doesn’t AARP help people over 50 find work?

I look more closely at the form laying ominously in front of me

on her uncomfortably barren desk, as she sits perfectly upright, chuckling to herself still amused by my rant, which makes me both confused and uncomfortable; her feet planted firmly on the floor in her…oh my god, sneakers! Are those Vans? Her ombre-accented manicure starting to show a little wear, resting motionless on her desk.

Why doesn’t she have any paper, clutter…framed photos? Oh

right, photos are on “Insta”.

Realizing that I was spending more time in a frozen gaze as if I

were on an anthropological examination of a millennial in captivity, yet again today, she interrupts my paralysis.

“Caroline?”

Here it is. The last salvo to my ego.

I look up without saying a word, fists clenched resting fiercely

on my lap.

“You forgot to select your plan on your healthcare form and you

need to sign it. Today’s the last day for open enrollment and we need to get these processed immediately.”

“Do you have any questions?” she asks still smiling, as she

hands me a pen.

“Thanks, no, I’m good,” I uttered quietly, slightly embarrassed

by myself; as my fist unfurls reaching for her pen.