Nice While It Lasted
Or why your job can’t bring about validation
I’ve always struggled with appreciating my accomplishments
I thought it might come after I was accepted to college. Instead I became obsessed with participating in pre-professional extracurriculars and freelance writing opportunities, which didn’t do it for me either. My next hope was getting into graduate school. Surely, Oxford and Columbia would bring about some self pride. And they did, sort of. Until the pandemic happened halfway through the programs. Then the joy morphed into the fear I’d never land a decent job.
That fear wasn’t totally misplaced. During my early years out of school, I took on multiple gigs to make ends meet. From 9 to 5, I answered emails, sat through meetings, and analyzed sales figures at two independent publishing houses. Then during my 5 to 9, I transcribed interviews for writers and edited erotica for an interactive storytelling app. I wasn’t quite ashamed, but I certainly wasn’t proud to be so well educated yet seemingly qualified to do nothing that would allow me to pay more than the minimum amount due on my student loans each month. Not to mention the quarter of each check being spent on halfway decent health insurance…
This tide didn’t start changing until I began my current role. The salary wasn’t extremely different. But there was other stuff it offered that helped me start to see my value.
Now, I know the point of this newsletter isn’t to talk about work. In fact, I’d argue the point is to explore anything outside of work. Trust me when I say I’m not going there. I’m focusing on something far richer and complicated here: my emotions!
As I prepared to transition roles, I remember asking the then Executive Assistant if it was possible to ship some stuff to my new address. I’d had a cubicle for three years at my previous press and acquired a collection of important goodies: stationery sets for promotional mailings, a bucket of snacks, plus all kinds of silly tchotchkes. These things were as essential as my actual computer and Gmail account. They felt like the comfort and consistency I needed as I left my first, real grown-up role; somewhere I’d grown up but that no longer made sense for a variety of reasons.
Of course, the EA replied, send it here and we can put it in your office. I assumed she meant the general office shared between staffers. Until I arrived and she handed me two keys. One indeed opened the main room. But the other was exclusively mine.
Opening the door for the first time, I looked around me in a state of awe. It was larger than anywhere I’d ever worked before, including my former boss’s bureau. The boxes I’d sent over seemed so small sitting on my new desk (it alone was larger than my former cubicle). I took it in for a good half hour. Then I planned how to make it mine.
I started by bringing in a more comfortable—and colorful—chair with a footstool, perfect for sitting back to read manuscripts. I arranged rag rugs on the drab carpeting for a cozier vibe, plus added a lamp for warmer, welcoming light. My previous snack bucket was upgraded to a snack side table, where I had both sweet and savory options alongside a kettle for afternoon tea breaks. There was also finally a logical place to hang my degrees, so I got them out of storage at my mother’s house.
The most impressive personal stamp I put on the space, though, was the collage. It began on an actual bulletin board then quickly expanded across the lackluster walls. I stuck up photos of me with loved ones alongside notes I’d received from old colleagues. Funny magazine cutouts kind interns had left on my desk. A message that came with chocolate covered strawberries Max once sent me during a rough week. As I travelled around for conferences and for pleasure, the ephemera grew to include postcards from restaurants, event programs, and countless independent bookstore bookmarks. Every time I went somewhere, I returned with a treasure to add to the collection. Marketing materials from publishers I admired plus stickers galore. If something could hang using double sided tape, it was eligible to join the chaotic fun and it probably did.
Soon, there was hardly an inch of my office I’d left untouched. When my colleagues saw the results, some of them were inspired to personalize theirs as well. I also noticed a sense of pride had kicked in. For whatever reason, having this door with my name on it finally made me feel like I’d accomplished something, more than anything else had. That includes the promotion I received a year later.
Long before I worked at this press, there had been talks of needing to relocate. To downsize. The company is located within a university building where space is a hot commodity. If we were seen using ours often, I was told there was less of a chance we’d have to leave. Given how nice my desk felt, this wasn’t a problem. I loved closing the door to focus, including on slower days when I could get writing done; oftentimes for this newsletter. I went to great lengths to explain to everyone who would listen why it was essential to keep the current configuration. It was for the business, but also for my well-being. I didn’t want to lose the very thing that I felt validated my career.
In my first year or so, I was told not to worry. Losing our location was a frequent threat from the university, but it wasn’t worth giving much heedance. It hadn’t come to fruition for a decade. So then, of course, it did.
The press was told late last year that the move would happen sometime this spring. Earlier this month, we were given two weeks’ notice. Eight of us are expected to share one small communal room. The dedicated spots for each of us won’t be individualized, and they’ll be a third of the cubicle where my career started. I’ve spent months being angry. It came out in petty ways, like scowling at the facilities managers who asked us how we could adapt the new room to fit our needs and telling them, “You can’t.” It came out in tears shed at home. Even though the situation had nothing to do with me personally, I struggled to get over the hurt. I had finally found the thing I wanted to really feel accomplished in my career, and it was going away.
As I committed last week to tearing down my special space piece by piece, I tried to remind myself that it was not a reflection on my worthiness; that a job is never a place to find this anyway. Sometimes, I believed it. Sometimes, I screamed into the void. After four days, my special treasures had found their way into a box or a bag. Everything except one postcard featuring an image of a cow. I’d added it to the collection last fall after apple picking at a farm upstate. I’m not sure what I stuck it to the wall with, but it simply wouldn’t moo-ve. I hope the next resident will appreciate it, though I’m almost certain they won’t.
The rest of my ephemera I saved in large mailing envelopes. But I don’t think it will be making its way into another wall collage anytime soon. There isn’t a physical spot in my life right now where I feel the sense of stability such a project would require. Perhaps someday there will be; or at the very least a pretty junk journal, a home to store parts of this complicated chapter of my life. Maybe then all the energy put in will seem worth it.
Rachel’s Weekly Recs:
This summer, I’m determined to commit to a hobby, and I think it will involve reconnecting with my inner child. I’ll start with this LEGO floral typewriter kit. You can preview the instructions for yourself here.
Sweaty weather means zits are inevitable. My go-to product is Clinique’s Acne Solutions Clearing Gel. Swipe a little on a difficult spot before you go to sleep and it will be noticeably better by morning. It’s perfect for anyone out there with sensitive skin, too.
I love a good frozen cocktail, and the blood orange margaritas at The Gem Saloon are among my favorites. Specialty cocktails are always $10 from 4-8PM, but go on a Thursday and you can enjoy the deal throughout the night.