I sit in my Jeep Wrangler squinting in the rear-view mirror to watch the human resources director, “Margaret,” navigate melting snow banks at the entrance of the administrative building. I'm screwed.
It's Friday, Jan. 28, 2010. Margaret never comes to this building on Fridays. She works in another location and comes to our administration building only for senior staff meetings on Tuesday mornings. No, she should not be here.
Breathe! You're okay.
I shouldn't be surprised, and I'm not, when I see her. I know the new chief executive officer (CEO) “Ginger” is more interested in her own agenda than working to save staff positions within the agency. Staff has been grumbling about layoffs for months since it was announced she'd be taking the helm.
We'd already been through a round of layoffs and had been hit hard with funding cuts from the federal and state governments.
“Be careful, Erin. She doesn't understand how important marketing is,” my predecessor warned.
* * *
For a week , I've been talking myself out of what I know is my impending fate.
Last Friday, the company's chief financial officer (CFO) e-mailed to ask that we have a meeting today. She was also new to her position (and, conveniently, good friends with the CEO).
When I questioned her about the purpose of our meeting and how I should prepare for it, “Gretchen” replied, “Oh, you don't need anything to prepare. I just want to meet so that we can go over your job responsibilities. I am new to my position and want to understand what everyone in administration does.”
Bull.
After six years with the agency, I never had any reason to meet with the CFO. And I knew there was no reason to meet with her now.
For a week, I've contemplated whether it was a false alarm or I should get my resume together. I've spent that week taking care of housekeeping issues - literally. I've cleaned out my desk, packed up the personal items I cared about, copied all my work for my portfolio to my flash drive, and given tentative heads ups to the people I cared most about.
Today is the day I find out whether I've cleaned out my paper clip-lined drawers for no reason.
* * *
I walk slowly into the administration building, making sure to stop off at a close friend's office and give her my contact information “just in case.” It's 9:56 a.m., and “Susan” assures me that I'm imagining things.
Really? Am I imagining the tears in your eyes?
I spend the next three minutes assuring her that I will be fine.
“I'll bounce right back. You'll see. I always do! Marketing jobs are a dime a dozen, and I promise I won't be a stranger,” I insist.
“I really need to get up there,” I say. “I want to get it over with. Besides, it will be fun to see how she plans to get out of that little e-mail untruth. I don't know how she lives with herself!”
Susan laughs and tells me I am the most positive person she's ever known.
Perfect! Now I know what they will say in my eulogy in four days - after I hang myself.
* * *
I stop in my office to drop off my purse, coat, and scarf. The walls are half naked, and I remove a cardboard sun my eldest son made for me in the fourth grade. I stuff it in my purse, grab a pen and notepad, and head three offices down to see the CFO after walking through the gates of my entrance to hell.
My fate as the now-former marketing director is confirmed by Margaret's presence on a brand-new white couch when I enter the office. Now that must have been a necessary expense! I bet that was two week's pay.
And she can't even look at me. I thought she was my friend.
She knew all along. Great. So this is what they mean when they say trust no one.
Margaret is staring at the floor. Her right knee, crossed over the left, is slightly bouncing as she greets me. I pretend not to know anything is wrong. Why make it easy on them?
I smile as big as I can. “Hi Margaret! Hello, Gretchen! It's so nice out today!”
Gretchen, a large and gruff woman who has never shown me a moment's interest, is first to get to the point.
I don't hear the exact words she used to tell me but I do hear “layoffs,” “you've done a great job,” “we'll give you any recommendation you need,” and “because you were here so long.” I hear “severance” and “COBRA options” thrown in for spice.
This. Is. Not. Happening. To. Me. What. Will. I. Doooooooo?
One thing I know I won't do is cry. I have promised myself this 3,000 times a day since I suspected I'd be another of the CEO's victims in this round of layoffs.
Do. Not. Cry. They don't deserve the satisfaction. Margaret lied to you!
When I am upset, crying is what comes naturally. Give me a Hallmark movie, and I promise you a wasted box of tissues and a wet shirt (even if we don't know each other well).
But when I am angry or feel I have been wronged, dirty looks and a verbal smack down come easy.
Knowing this about myself and having had a week of mental preparation for this moment, I waver between the two reactions.
Don't do it. It's not professional! Walk out of here with pride. Don't burn a bridge. You are better than that!
Mom's words and my husband's words scream in my ears as Margaret stares down at my separation agreement, and explains something about 30 days and what a wonderful asset I've been “to the team.”
I remain silent. I nod at what appear to be the appropriate moments.
Then, as Gretchen reaches forward to collect her things, I say some choice words, calmly and confidently.
“I don't want to hear how I have been an asset to the team. I don't want to hear another word. You blatantly lied to me, and anything you have to say to me now is not something I can trust or believe because you have proven yourself to be a liar.
“I have given this place more than six years. I have given it my heart. I care about the people here. I care about the work we do. I have put in extra hours, extra time, and done everything in my power to do my job to the best of my ability.
“I planned to retire here, and Margaret knows this,” I say, as Margaret nods.
“I don't need you wishing me luck because luck is not what I need. I don't need your sermons on how I will be fine, because, frankly, I don't care what you think.
“You have lied to all of us, and you and Ginger haven't been here long enough to care about any of us or the people we serve. What you care about is yourselves.
“We are clearly finished here, and I do not see any reason for either of us to waste our time. I am sure you have other people's lives to ruin.”
Margaret finally looks up to respond, but I cut her off.
“I thought that you were my friend. You were someone that I trusted and admired. The fact that you knew about this and gave me no indication it was coming says a lot.”
She hangs her head and tells me she will walk me to my office to collect my things. I walk out ahead of her, and collect my purse and coat. “I already have what I need,” I say.
She asks me if I am sure I don't want any of the other items still hanging in the office. I tell her I am fine, wondering if her eyes are misty because of me or her ongoing allergy issues.
I realize it doesn't matter, and I walk directly out the building.
* * *
I drive out of the parking lot down two blocks and park my Jeep behind another office building. There, I break down and cry.
Later, when I am able to speak in full sentences, I call my best friend and former co-worker, and tell her that our fears were confirmed.
She, never afraid to let the tears flow, cries into the phone from her desk telling me over and over how sorry she is and how much she will miss me.
An hour later she calls to let me know that she has also been let go. And for her, it's worse, because she never saw it coming. Neither did I.
You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.
It's 2:30 p.m., and I've already called my husband and my mother, filed for unemployment, determined the COBRA plan is far too expensive ($1,600 a month) for any American not working in Hollywood or the porn industry, and uploaded my employment history to Monster.com and New Hampshire Job Match.
The kids are due home in a half hour. I decide to take a shower, bake some cookies, and try to pull it together before they arrive home. We have a whole weekend to explain this to them.
The shower steam is particularly thick as I wash my hair for the third time and tell myself a myriad of cliches: Things happen for a reason. God only gives you what you can handle. You can do anything you set your mind to. There's no I in loser. You can do it. You can do it. Just do it! Nike!
Then, I realize, holy cow, I'm a dork.
Who even hires dorks? It's been years since I've had to look for a job!
I thought I was going to work there forever, I think. I loved that job!
Who is going to do the annual report? I think. What about Dan's marketing piece I promised him I'd write next week? They don't even know how to update the website!
No. Stop.
Not your problem. You have bigger problems.