Think of this as a trilogy or, even better, a thrillogy, because talking about the job move for a third straight post must be as riveting for you as it is for me. It’s so riveting, in fact, that I pledge to you this will be the last evening devoted to the topic. Promise. What’s been compelling to me is the way the contours of communication have shifted recently, in many cases toward wholly unexpected and refreshing avenues.
Throughout this episode, I’ve sought to limit communication and try to balance dissemination with courtesy. When I resigned, for instance, I reached out to a few people in tandem to blunt whatever douche factor might’ve been associated with the announcement. A small group was all that was needed, too, because the wire–the same infrastructure that powers the rumor mill–would invariably take care of the rest, and sure enough the news was out in a day or two.
You’d think I’d want to shout about it from the rooftops, but the reason for being reticent is simple, really. I’ve been on the other side, frequently, and I remember one particular colleague who droned on and on about his new opportunity, reveling in his impending exit to the point where I told him flat out, “Hey, I’ve still got to be here.” You understand, I’m sure. It’s, like, I get it. I’m happy for you. Now get the fuck out. That’s why I’ve largely kept my mouth shut unless questioned and, although this may be overboard, I’ve vetoed certain traditions. Absolutely no happy hour, for starters. Also prohibited is the marginally sappy goodbye e-mail with an inspirational quote. And the veto stamp won’t even begin to dry until I’m able to make a quiet exit, stage left.
Now, I don’t know if this is a direct payoff of this approach, but the conversations I’m having are fresh and frank. The sentiments certainly run the gamut–happy, sad, forthright, oblique, urgent–and the tone also varies wildly, loud and boisterous in one moment, hushed and conspiratorial the next, but the authenticity is shared. Some of these talks have even bordered on the confessional, with secrets that I’m bound, honored, to guard. Would it have been possible to cultivate this directness from the get-go? I’m guessing not, but it would’ve been something. Perhaps I’ll try resigning on day one.
Call it a concession, if you must, but the headline you see at the top of this page is the closest I’ll ever get to a “status update.” It hasn’t changed in weeks, and it’s dense and obtuse, a secret I share with myself. Clearly it doesn’t adhere to the traditional notion of a status update, which suits me just fine–my goal isn’t to offer you an unfettered play-by-play of what I’m doing or how I’m feeling, after all, but to preserve a one-way conduit of information curated with an iron fist. If you think of Facebook as a party lined with Polaroids, and Twitter a bohemian carnival of oversharing, then all of this–the splendor you see before you–is a police state.
And the mandate for tonight is to close the file on my recent job hunt. You know the arc. The follow-up e-mails to the interviews, which I pored over late into the night and then let sit until the morning, when the timestamps would look a lot more reasonable. The waiting, punctuated by moments when I wondered what I could’ve handled better to lessen the waiting. Then, the conviction that I had done all I could, that I was the shopper here, and that some things are and aren’t meant to be. The browser tab devoted to Gmail, one eye fixed on it at all times, almost willing it to change from “Gmail – Inbox” to “Gmail – Inbox (1),” only to find the (1) was for the weekly specials e-mail from Southwest Airlines. You may recall how you camped out by your mailbox after you sent in your college applications, fingers crossed tightly for a fat envelope. It’s the modern retelling of that.
But eventually the key e-mail makes it to the inbox. There’s the initial pitch. The counter. The counter to the counter. And finally, finally the formal offer letter. I thought it would be easy to sign it, break ties and move on without a second thought, but this wasn’t the case. I remember clutching a pen and hesitating at the dotted line. I remember drafting my resignation letter, then hovering over the “send” button, heart in my throat, rationalizing why it took so much effort to just click. Sign and send I did, though, which brings us back to the headline. It’s the sound of an elevator reaching its destination, an oven proclaiming it’s ready, the clink of more cheddar, a timer fully unwound. Ding.
Were we supposed to conclude our discussion today? You must’ve misheard me, which is to say:
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, July 27.
Five weekends ago, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, I paced back and forth in my spare upstairs room, garbed in a full suit as Mad Men played in the background. This was the full to-do, with jacket, button-down shirt, fancy pants. A tie tied correctly, even. The goal wasn’t to pretend to be Don Draper, like when nerds encase themselves in Yoda costumes for a sci-fi convention, though I imagine I may have been the only viewer in a 1,000-mile radius to experience the series in such an authentic manner. No, I was dressed to the nines with a singular aim: to reacquaint myself with how a suit felt, after having successfully avoided one for years. I just happened to be catching up on the third season of Mad Men at the time. The real show? A second round of interviews for my next job.
You know how I gravitate toward plans, so you can imagine the level of prep that went into this process. It began with mulling over pages and pages of handwritten notes detailing my own story–and the new story I wanted to pursue. These were bullet points constructed to address the boilerplate questions. What’s my background? What do I know about the new company? Why do I want to leave my current gig? Strengths. Weaknesses. Expectations. Then came the far more interesting part, in which I tried to anticipate the curveball questions. Tell you a joke? No problem.
Why was the goldfish kicked out of school?
Because he was caught with seaweed.
Obviously I’d pause briefly before delivering the joke to simulate thoughtfulness. Obviously. I also pictured a scenario wherein an interviewer would ask for a second joke, and upon finding the Internet miserly in its offerings, I decided to craft my own backup.
How do you get a penguin into a penguin suit?
Schedule him for an interview.
With a solid meta-joke up my sleeve, I proceeded to indulge my neurosis further by researching the total U.S. population, along with the contrasting densities of New York and Seattle, in an attempt to brace for those brain teasers I loathe so much. Say I had to calculate the cost of cleaning all the windows in Chicago, for instance, or guess the number of diapers purchased by Indianapolis residents in a given year. Using the rough range of population counts in New York City (9 MM) and Seattle (<1 MM), I’d arrive at population estimates for my respective cities, approximate diapers or windows per person, and then work from there.
Finally, I plotted the actual route to the interview site, which happens to be in the same corporate park I’m frequenting now. I had this horrific mental picture of waiting at a red light, looking to my right, and locking eyes with a current colleague. It would’ve been, like, “Uh, yeah, it’s a yearly tradition of mine to break out the suit and drive around the corporate park during early afternoon hours.” Awkwaaard, in a word, and you can bet I mapped it out so that there were right turns only, with as few stoplights and four-way stop signs as possible.
At the end of the day, all these interviews honestly only called for two things: being cleanshaven was important. I also needed to know my shit. That’s it. There were no brain teasers, no window washing estimates, no uh-oh moments during the drive there. I didn’t even get to tell my penguin joke! Disappointing, really. It all worked out in the end, though, and we’ll discuss the aftermath on Thursday. One of the secrets of this site will also be revealed. And total U.S. population is about 310 MM, in case you were wondering.
Achewood
Clark and Michael
Consumerist
Fark
FlickFool
Homestar Runner
Newsmap
Onion
PBF Comics
Penny Arcade
Red vs. Blue
Salon
Snopes
Something Awful
Urban Dictionary