The Thing About Job Security

Hey hot property!

Look. At. You.

Eight years at med school. A specialization in neuro-proctology, four years of training and NOW YOU ARE THE MAN.

or the woman

You studied hard, young buck, like your mother taught you. You didn’t NEED the spankings and the wallopings and the threats of “making nothing of your life” because you were DRIVEN.

You sweated over homework assignments and you gave up climbing trees with Stacey in order to get your dissertation on the common-or-garden-vole in to the teacher on time. You got a gold star and a smiley face EVERY WEEK.

And in time you graduated, and you qualified, and you passed your nine month induction period. Then you toiled, brown-nosed and impressed enough to make partner. And now you are. And you drive a Beemer.

The family holiday in the Bahamas, and you get to see them at weekends.

Phew.

***

Or maybe this wasn’t you.

Maybe you didn’t find it easy. Maybe you found it really, really tough. Tough to concentrate, tough to learn, tough to perform. It’s not that you didn’t want to do well, it just didn’t come naturally.

So you resigned yourself to not making partner, to not being a doctor, to doing WHAT YOU KNEW YOU WERE CAPABLE of.

And so every day you go to work. It doesn’t turn you on, tweak your nipples or goose you unexpectedly in the night. It doesn’t light up your day, and it doesn’t light up your eyes.

BUT it’s not SO BAD.

In exchange for eight hours debeaking chickens, ladling gravy, mowing lawns or shining shoes, you get WHAT’S IMPORTANT:

Evenings with your family, and food in your kids’ mouths.

Phew.

***

And then this happens:

• Some French dude in a German bank does something he shouldn’t and your customers stop spending money. You never even met this guy, but apparently you have to go.
• The Texan guy with the cigar you only ever see in the parking lot sells something to a minor Saudi royal. Infuriatingly, this means you’re no longer needed.
• Your boss elopes with Sharon from audit. He’s replaced by Jeremy. Jeremy doesn’t like you. You have to go.
• Some fat guy spends all your pension fund and falls off a boat. You have to go.
• For any number of reasons, all beyond your control, and many beyond your understanding, you have to go.

***

So you’re out of a job. And it’s somebody else’s fault.

OR

(…)

You work for yourself.

So you’ll never be out of a job.

Sure, you might be short of clients, or struggle financially, eat spaghetti hoops for a year or any number of things. But you won’t blame somebody else.

(OK, so I’m still looking for the solution to stop your savings being wiped out when your Icelandic bank goes under, but I haven’t got an answer for fucking everything.)

***

So amigo, your homework:

• Read the brilliant 27 Reasons Why You Should Never Have A Job
• Read Escape From Cubicle Nation, the book from the talented and unfailingly polite Pamela Slim
• Have a beer and plot your exit strategy