22 months. I hate to wish them to go by fast–because who the hell knows how long I have left on this crazy earth–but if I can survive at my current job for 22 months a world of life possibilities will open up. I won’t exactly have achieved financial independence (FIRE), but I’ll be close enough that I can take more risks in my career, take a step back as needed, and really focus on what types of companies I want to work for (and what I want to DO in life) and not so much on the money.
Yes, in two years, it is possible my husband and I will be approaching $2M in net worth. This seems ridiculous given just 15 years ago we had next to nothing. I am so grateful that this is possible, yet it has put me in the worst state of terror everyday fearing I will lose this job. 22 months might as well be 22 years right now. It feels that way. I don’t see how I can take my current tasks and succeed in them enough to achieve my targeted tenure. But maybe I can pull it off. I’ve lasted this long — haven’t I?
I’m trying. I’m REALLY trying. I know my boss sees that. But is it enough? And how can it be enough when I’m handed projects that are impossible at worst and next-to-impossible at best? My role is so all over the place, I have no idea what I do, which makes it hard to figure out how to get good at it. Well, it seems what I do is try to keep my job and to do that I need to make people like me by delivering quality work that effectively reflects what everyone else wants. My opinion doesn’t matter. I am nobody. I am the executor of everyone else’s ideas, great, or not so great. And I better not question them or complain or try to recommend something better. Nope. Just, shut up, heads down, GSD, pray I make it to my next vesting date.
That’s 8 more vesting periods, if you’re counting (who’s counting?) 8 isn’t a huge number. It feels more achievable than 22 months. It will soon be 7. Seven is close to six which is close to five which, if you ask my toddler, is somewhere near two. These are just weeks. Weeks that provide me a lifetime of security if I don’t go crazy and spend my earnings like a nouveau riche lotto winner. I can do this. I know it will feel so incredibly good at the end of this rainbow where I get to my fully vested pot of gold.
You know, it’s sad in a different way than my past career flubs. I actually like my boss. I want to help her succeed. I want to be a good employee (I mean I’ve always wanted to, but I haven’t always fully respected the people I work for.) I respect her a lot. She works her ass off. She deserves her success. She tries to be a good boss. Unfortunately, I’m not able to help her win. So instead of flat-out firing me, she’s bringing in someone to basically have my job title… and I’ll report into them. This is going to go splendidly, right?
With a new boss coming in next month, a handful of impossible projects, and a performance plan that will be passed on to him or her to introduce my work ethic and talent in the absolute best light ever, I’m kind of fucked–but I’m going to try to make it work. As I do. As my former colleague and I used to joke–I’m Katniss. I’ll survive. Somehow. At least until the sequel.