My dear cyberfriend Five Husbands wrote a brilliant post the other day.
She lost her job a year ago and, with a teenage son to support, eked and struggled and fought depression and barely lived through the year. But she survived. And by the grace of the universe and her brilliant résumé and fabulous brain, found a new job just before the holidays.
She and I have a lot in common, not the least of which are a greater-than-the-average number of marriages and a very long daily commute.
I have not been unemployed, except by choice, for 15 years. But I have inordinate financial stresses, directly related to having bought my midtown Tucson house without selling my Continental Ranch house, and then hemorrhaging money to sell both houses. I'm trying to come to grips with the idea that I will be in debt on the day I die. I don't like that idea. I want the pressure to cease.
I have a well-paying job that feels secure. But I work, and—especially—work at that job, because I have bills to pay. If I suddenly came into $150,000 (after taxes, of course), I would quit my job in a heartbeat. I hate the commute. I make it work by enjoying books or learning from podcasts, but—especially in the frequent rain or snow—I hate the commute.
In this day and age, I think everyone who is employed worries about being laid off. And I think what we have to do is figure out how to make ourselves so indispensable to our employers that they can't even fathom the thought of losing us.
It's too danged much pressure!
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