It’s Time to Clock In
There is nothing so cripplingly humiliating as starting a new job. Any job. Anywhere. Anytime. Career coaches and therapists and mentors won’t tell you this. They’ll say, “Well, there’s no such thing as good timing,” and you’ll twist it in your mind into something whimsically optimistic. Like, “Oh, it might not be a good time, but it’s the right time.” And everyone in your life will nod thoughtfully and agree that it is indeed time for you to spread your brilliant wings that so many others have tried to clip over the years out of their own sheer insecurity. But thankfully for the world, they failed and, because of your resilience, you managed to rise to “Associate Director of Communications for Americas” at Whateverthefuck Inc. You’ll accept a new job because the timing is perfect and the role is perfect and you are so perfect that whatever sorry office you just departed might as well close up shop because your talent is utterly irreplaceable and now, finally, someone understands that. For the first time in your career, they see you.
You might have had a couple of weeks to victory lap around your old workplace, reflecting on every shitty little inconvenience that you’ll never have to face again – the last time using a broken coffee pot or the last time your boss asks, “Oof, late one last night? I remember those days,” when, really, you just look like that. You soak in the final instances of navigating some hellscape file server, fumbling between folders until the IT manager tells you, for the millionth time in the most robotic verbiage, that you are a fucking moron, that technology has already passed you by, and that he very clearly explained this minor detail to you when you onboarded 1,237 days ago. But who cares? In two weeks, you’ll never speak again. He’ll still be the IT guy, and you? Well, clearly, the universe has more important plans for your undergraduate degree.
This moment in time — the days leading up to your next job — is as good as it gets. It’s a quick high but potent enough that it omits a sort of glow around you, like ecstasy being sweated out at a rave. Embrace that feeling. Because the walls of a new identity are about to crack as quickly as they were forged. The farewell party is over. The weekend has passed. And “Future You” finally has to live up to the potential of “Present You.”
Growing up, did you ever have a new student join your elementary school? If you were that interloper, you’d remember the frantic fascination with your presence, as if your exoticness and unfamiliarity would put math or recess through an entirely new lens. If you were part of the welcoming committee, you’ll remember the excitement that comes with the prospect of distraction. Because that’s what the new student is, really. They’ll hopefully make friends and learn what they can but, in the grand scheme of it all, after introductions are made, math is still math. Recess is recess. And fucking hell, now we have uneven numbers for basketball. Thanks a lot, interloper.
The same is true in the office. People are quick to test-drive their new personality on you. HR managers explain that all this paperwork is a fucking bore and, if they had it their way, we’d just all be mature adults and go with the flow. But if you could pass along the forms by end-of-day, seriously, that’d be great. Your coworkers establish their competence by explaining how to perform tasks so banal that you might assume they need no explaining. But trust them, they do: “See, the water cooler is just a bit—you see that? It’s finicky, right? You really have to press it.” And, the IT guy fucking hates you. Mostly, because you still don’t get it, you’ll never get it, and New IT Guy and Old IT Guy are probably making fun of you right now between innings of their IT Guy Beer League Softball game. It’s all a bit performative. For most, their internal autopilot has been disabled for the first time in months. The newness of it all is jarring and, in order to thrive in a disrupted social hierarchy, they batten down the hatches of their own inadequacies. Like a landlord painting over holes in the wall, issues like “I haven’t hit a quota in six months” or “I got wasted at last year’s Christmas party” are countered by moments of expertise like, “This is where we keep the Post-its.” Thankfully, this offers you the perfect chance to try on some new personality traits of your own.
Unfortunately, everything is new, and it’s so hard to learn everything while learning to be the new you. Maybe you should’ve practiced being someone else earlier. Even the commute is disorienting, sitting beside a sea of subway creatures and comparing them to the other creatures with whom you used to share the train. “Am I on an uglier train? I swear, people dressed better on my old commute.” You try to get a coffee at a small café up the block from your new office, but they only take cash. How could you not know that? Everyone knows that. So, you make coffee at the office and realize they have the same coffee pot as your old office. “But this one is a bit tricky, let me show you,” says someone whose name you forgot two days ago. “Thank you so much,” you say, because your new personality is gracious.
Everything is new, which was the whole point, really. For two weeks, you’re ushered around like the sole attendee of some adult day camp where everyone besides you knows the rules to every game, yet they’re all violently sick of playing. There’s a small welcome lunch, which New IT Guy eats at his desk. People say, “I bet they didn’t do this at the old office,” like an insecure new partner convincing you of their spontaneity. Someone says, “We used to do this all the time. We should do this more often.” A few others nod and agree through mouthfuls of dry whole wheat bread and egg salad. “Totally,” you say in unison, because your new personality loves egg salad.
Between fumbling around the office and shuffling through the first few bits of high-stakes work as Associate Director of Communications for Americas at Whateverthefuck Inc., you do your best to convince the team that you are indeed the winner they met during the interview. You try not to ask too many questions because your new personality is assured. When you leave the office, you cling to that assurance. You tell the same friends who nodded sagely at your decision to change jobs that it’s perfect because your new office has a huge window and you never used to get enough sunlight. Plus, the work-life balance is better. And you have so much more autonomy here. Really.
Like, really.
One more time, with assurance.
Like, really.
Someday, this will all be familiar. For now, there are still pockets of unfamiliarity in which smaller pockets of untold potential lie waiting to be unleashed. This goes for the job, and this goes for you. Next week, there’s a meeting to discuss the very specific skills you were brought in to provide. Then, maybe another lunch, because you’re the type of person to make sure they do more of those things around the office. At least, you are now.
“Congrats on another great day!” your director sends through Google chat.
Another great day. Not only was it lost on you that this was a great day, but that those preceding it were indeed also great. It’s all so new, and it’s all so great.
You hover over an emoticon that feels adequately affirming in its smile. The description reads “Slightly Happy.” Perfect. The New You is hard to please.
