Hold Fast to Your Dreams (unless it's this one)

It is the last day of school. I sprint in the hallway, classroom to classroom. I cup my hands into makeshift binoculars and peer through the wire glass window frames of each door. Inside each class, students are seated in an orderly fashion as the professor hands out a test. I survey the faces. No one is familiar. I don’t even know what test I am supposed to take. The hallway lengthens and the classrooms multiply. I am trapped in the equivalent of an M.C. Escher painting. This final test is do or die. The sprint and stare technique continues to the next classroom and then I wake up. This is the reoccurring nightmare when stress enters my life.

I understand you skipped the final exam.

Please, sit. Let's talk probation options.

The last classroom setting I attended was 20+ years ago yet the dream remains embedded in my subconscious. Instead of classroom consequences, this dream is now a metaphor to homework in the real world. In this particular case, it is a project management delivery schedule that will align personnel to specific assignments. How could I forget this test?

Something tells me if I do remember, I ‘m shit out of luck.

Ahhh yes, build a cross-sectional team for a nebulous end-product where multiple personnel provide minimal support to an overall objective. Ugh, it’s all coming back to me now like bad Indian food. The problem with this initiative is diluted responsibilities. The sum is greater than its parts but in this case, the parts are falling apart. The number of colleagues to contribute to the workload outweighs the actual amount of work to be done. This minimal support lowers the liability of each person. This results in the easy homework being pushed aside, or into the trash can. There are bigger deliverables out there to be addressed. Deliverables directly tied to reputations. When my deliverable is compartmentalized there are no repercussions to the individuals for not completing the assignment. When my deliverable is viewed as a whole, it is directly tied to my reputation. Repercussions indeed. The meeting is on.

Tell me about your billable hours for this project!

This meeting is the opposite of my dream. I know exactly who I report to, where I report to and what is expected of me. There is no stock footage alarm clock scene to save me in this circumstance. The anxiety level is palpable. It is time for a mental rolodex review of my excuses as a last ditch effort. 'Competing priorities' is always a good one. 'Need to pick your brain a little more' has a hint of reverence. 'My African pygmy hedgehog had eye surgery' neutralizes authority with surprise. Oh well, I’m screwed. I had a nice run, time to take my medicine.

Before I say a word, the issue is resolved. I am saved. I am informed the contract has been placed on a no-cost performance extension. This is not a free male enhancement pill. It is when funds remain in the contract and work will continue beyond the original end date. My dilemma resolved by deus ex machina. I can hold off my reoccurring nightmare for at least another month. Time for lunch.

Saved your ass. Now run to Chipotle!

The Cafeteria Chaos Theory

This week, I forgot my lunch along with an emergency breakfast bar. I would have to visit our "new" cafeteria. At least new to me. It opened four years ago but somehow I have managed to avoid it. Upon confession of my first visit to co-workers I received incredulous reactions. I heard talk at the water cooler over the years. It was an experience. Time to find out for myself.

Before entering, I scanned the layout to find a point of engagement. No luck. The flow of human traffic in the cafeteria resembled a mock riot. No stones were being thrown and no one was crying injustice yet each person had their own unique cadence and destination to reveal a pattern that was no pattern. Behind me, the next wave of hungry consultants pushed me into the fray against my will. I was part of the mob. It was time to grab some grub.

You take the salad bar, I’ll grab the tofu stir-fry.

I search for what I’m craving and the chaos begins to make sense. My scanning eyes and line of sight are out paced by the number of options. I am fully integrated into the chaos by wandering aimlessly to each poorly marked station. Only to turn a corner to find more stations: regular salad, supreme salad, Korean BBQ, pizza, sandwiches, vegetarian, gluten-free, soft-drinks and health drinks. Being accosted by the caterers of each station while trying to reach a decision: “Would you like to try a sample?”, “Interest you in a salad?”, “Make a decision, yo?” This cafeteria was not designed by an architect, the layout was created by Pussy Riot in the hopes of upsetting the status quo.

Say no to the New Food Order!

It’s a smidge of anarchy paired with the blueprint of a traditional food court. A well-assembled plan that was cut into pieces then used for a game of 52 pickup. For all of the process improvement the consulting industry brags about, the cobbler’s kids are without shoes in this instance.

The Korean BBQ looks really good, except I don’t know where to get in line. The station is less than three feet away but there are a dozen people in front of me. I’m not sure if I’m cutting in front of someone or being taken advantage of. It's as if I'm sifting my way through the thick forest of pins in a Pachinko machine. With 25% will and 75% luck, I shake and ping my way to the food station. I load up on meat, veggies and white rice and head to the cashier.

The scale I set my food on has the gravitational pull of Jupiter. Apparently the Korean BBQ has coagulated into a ball of concrete as the scale indicates a price close to $13. I am tempted to ask about a layaway plan. Instead, I grab the last Andrew Jackson from my wallet and hand it over. My expression to the sticker shock registers with the cashier. Her smirk equates to, “Welcome to the cafeteria, sucker.”

Hello! Trying to find the weigh station for my Korean BBQ.

I exit to the seating arrangements of the cafeteria and survey the grounds. Waves of anxiety undulate in the pit of my stomach. Holy shit, I’m in high school again. The pressure to find a place to sit during the busiest part of lunch. There is the young crowd of astonishingly good-looking career climbers who occupy the majority of the space. They appear to have been pulled from a United Colors of Benetton casting call. In stark contrast are the apex predators atop the corporate ladder who sit at smaller tables. Then there are me and my co-workers: in the murky middle with little career growth and ambition. Luckily, we are the table that no one notices. I eat as fast as possible and head out the door.

Look, man. I just want to eat my food and leave.

The cafeteria exit is designed for assimilation back into work mode. A badge is required to depart the lunch experience. Leaving through turnstiles that account for where you were and also where you are going with your next security card swipe. Chaos to order. Somehow heading back to my cubicle doesn’t seem so bad anymore. But maybe that’s the point of the design. Damn you cafeteria. Damn you straight to hell.

Ahhh, home sweet home.

Short-Lived Legacy

Managing work and doing work. Each is unique. But there are brief periods of time when they actually intersect. Particularly in the case when a manager must transition processes for production at lower levels. Give the lower paygrade an early win. It’s another notch on the evaluation belt of a subordinate. It’s also one item subtracted from the manager.

The work has to find a new home. Unlike Wheel of Fortune, we cannot do the same thing over and over.

We're going to ignore that low-blow,

think about our paychecks, and smile.

The manager creates an efficient way to complete a repetitive process. After that, give it to someone else. Simple. Except there are three reasons for my reservations about the passing of the torch.

1. Control Freak - What if they do it wrong?
Legacies are built from CEOs and successful entrepreneurs. These positions hone the power to craft a business swan song. Legacies are not built for middle-management. It hones the power to hand shit off. This limited influence leads to complete control of the final product. Giving the repetitive deliverable to someone else often proves tougher than expected. No matter how specific the instructions, a hiccup will slip in and re-engineer the process.

The paper clip always faces due south after collation.

2. Eat Humble Pie - What if they make it look easy?
My control freak concern subsides when I realize the processes are being placed in capable hands. Maybe too capable. We can bitch all we want about the younger generation. The hard lesson is that the smartest ones figure it out faster and make it better. What I took so long to build into a manual routine the millennials can automate without breaking a sweat.

I took your rickshaw and made it into a rocket. Hope you don’t mind.

3. Planned Obsolescence - What if I have nothing left to do?
Great, I’m handing off so much work that I have none for myself. It can result in an empty performance review. “What did you do?”, “Ohhhh, I gave away the store and engineered myself out of a job.” Once you run out of work you’re either fired or labeled as a thought leader. I’m not sure which is worse.

A thought leader is that crazy uncle you see on holidays. You don't know when, but eventually he's going to say something certifiable. It’s hard to find out who you are once you’ve outsourced all of the materials that provided a small but solidified place in the corporate ladder. If I want to be a thought leader I have to start making up stuff up. Abstract shit that Mensa would have to Google. Crazy uncle time.

I’m here to talk to you about the Overthruster method. Listen carefully!

The trick is to create a concept so absurd that the highest level of leadership is convinced it must be too great to ignore. Eventually, I’ll be found out, but at least it buys enough time to look for a new job.
 

Dressed for Moderate Success

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Based on my available wardrobe, it appears I want a middle-management job from the late 90’s. After reviewing my outdated inventory, I tried to think of the last time I went shopping for work clothes. All that resulted was flashing images of my flip-phone, G-Shock watch and AOL screen name.

Um, Yeah. I heard we had matching outfits today.

I know my business attire is in desperate need of an upgrade. The scariest part is that I am not even in the right decade. Parting with my money for work clothes is the same as buying new tires for my car. The need is there but I’d rather spend my dollars somewhere else.

I don’t mind getting dressed up for weddings and funerals. These are special occasions. Events that occur at such a low frequency should be given a high amount of attention. Clothes are a part of it. Work? That is five days a week: ordinary, common, conventional. I intentionally flip the script, high frequency and low amount of attention. If I have to dress up every day I might as well be as average as the day I am a part of. I am not delusional. The other high-end suits are. But then again, I’m not given the same amount of attention as the high-end suits. Are clothes the key ingredient to success? Or are they a part of the ensemble cast of looks, height, eye contact and the ability to control flatulence during negotiations. The only one who takes business appearance lightly in my office is me.

C’mon, you know my tagline. No? Google it.

There is no such thing as casual in our office. Gone are casual Friday’s, casual dating and casual drinking at your desk. People mean business and their dress corresponds to that attitude. My clothes are as outdated as my philosophy. Not only are my wool pants see-through, but people now see through me and my lack of ambition. My appearance inspires curiosity instead of confidence. Time to make a change. Time to find out if clothes really do make the man. Time to break out the MasterCard. Time to see the price tag on a 21^st century dress shirt.

Whoa! What? Are these dress shirts threaded with gold? Is this tie made from the mane of a unicorn? Why are these oxford shoes equal to a car payment? Inflation has hit this store in some parallel universe run by Jimmy Carter. It has been a long time. Too long.

This cannot be the right price. What year is it?

I exit the Brooks Brothers store empty-handed and downhearted. Maybe I don’t need to inspire others with confidence. Maybe all I need to do is show up with new clothes that actually fit me. My lack of ambition doesn’t have to go away, just my old threads. The right balance of being paid attention to without being essential personnel. The answer: Burlington Coat Factory. It’s not sophisticated...but neither am I.

Dude, There's My Car

It’s proposal season, or as my kids call it, “Where’s Daddy?” The proposal writing consists of putting my head down, writing about the promise of deliverables, the qualifications of our team and how we can do it for five dollars in just under six months. The hours are long and the nights are late during proposal season. It burns white hot for several weeks. So hot that you forget things, like where you parked your car.

Where is that tat about P4 parking?

 

After tackling the first draft of the proposal, I walk the empty halls amid the hum of vacuums from the cleaning staff. I exit the building, inhale the city air and make my way to Metro. One of the benefits of late hours is hitting the far right side of the commuting bell curve. An opposite experience to Sting’s poetic “packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes.” There is more room to breathe, an opportunity to decompress from a day’s work. There is also a significant reduction in B.O. This is a blessing any day, but for the summer commute it is a God send.

Don't be stealing my lyrics, bitch.

I am near the heart of the city and heading to a suburb. The metro map resembles a bicycle wheel without a rim. The center is a hub of transit activity in the densely populated portions of the city. The rails diverge outward like spokes on a wheel until they reach the far extension of satellite suburbs. Each stop that moves to the 'burbs thins out the herd of suits. My exit is at the end of a spoke. I hop off Metrorail and move up the steps. Less than eight hours later, this desolate space will be engulfed with very important and busy people. But for right now, it’s just me. Parking garage, car, home…if only it were that easy.

Muscle memory helps me put away my Metro card and security badge and grab the car key. A necessary move that is also symbolic, one that I recognize as the end of my work day. My car is right around the corner on the first floor. Except that it’s not. As a matter of fact, there are not any cars in the entire row. Must be on the opposite side. Except that it’s not there either. Both sides look exactly alike. Actually, every single angle in this parking garage is starting to appear the same in this dimly lit hour. The absence of cars provides no markers for reference. The garage is cosmetically homogeneous. My brain only holds so much. The proposal writing shoved my short-term memory to the side. The piece that remembers where I parked my car and some witty dialogue from Fletch is now gone. No need to panic, yet.

You're pushing me out the door?!

I double click the lock symbol on my key fob waiting for a DEET-DEET reply. It is met with silence. I am not even close to my car. My stomach sinks at the thought of it having been towed. I walk to the front of the garage and call the number. Nope, license plate doesn’t match up with anything in inventory. Awesome! My car is still in the garage…somewhere.

I know it's on one of these levels.

The parking garage is a boxy mass of concrete columns and floors. It is large. Six floors and 5,000 spaces large. Serious ground for my wing tips to cover. I could attack this systematically or try various areas where it might be. I opt for panic and begin an aimless search. My key fob is pressed with each step. It endures the wrath of my frustration through the single digit fury of my thumb. Double-click, silence. Blisters form on my heels. Double-click, silence. My perspiration is equal parts anger and exhaustion. Double-click, silence. The oppressive humidity turns my light blue shirt to dark blue. Double-click, silence. I give up. My desperation turns to a mea culpa of commuter etiquette...

From this day forward, I will not board a rail car while others are trying to step off. I will not sit in the area reserved for the elderly or handicapped. I will not place my laptop bag in an empty seat next to me during rush hour. I will not huff and puff when a tourist asks me to point out their stop.

...double-click, DEET-DEET. A reply! F*ck all those promises. I found my car! Startled at the digital response, I laugh with hysterical glee. I cup my hands over my mouth to suppress the hyena-like sound. Almost home! Don’t get ahead of yourself. Instant karma based on broken promises.

I hear it, but where is it? Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. With each click and response I walk to opposite ends of the garage. I am playing Marco Polo with my car. And my car is not just winning, it is officially kicking my ass. The DEET-DEET response echoes off the concrete of the empty garage. The sound reverberates against multiple walls until I’m convinced it is everywhere. It is the cricket stuck in your room on a summer night. The sound is ubiquitous but the cricket is a ghost. Except all I want to do with this cricket is catch a ride home. I promise I won’t be angry and smash you with a random flip-flop. Pinky promise. To hell with the promises! I just got burned on that. Where are you my beautiful 2006 Altima with bad alignment and limited options? HELP ME!...and that’s when the DEET-DEET was accompanied by a red light bouncing off the wall. My brake lights. Sound and sight. I laughed like a hyena again. Except this time I let it all out.

Dude, found it.

I hobbled to my car with fresh blisters from the junket. My hair was matted with sweat. Beads of perspiration masked my tears of joy. I hugged the car door. I don’t remember parking here. I don’t even remember this level. And I don’t care. This experience has changed me. It has made me a better person. Sometimes things have to be taken away in order to understand how important they are. I can’t wait to tell my family about what I have learned. Merging onto the freeway never felt so good. I just wish this asshole in front of me would move. Time to lay on the horn for this idiot. Some of us have places to be!