Tag: aging

I Have a Horrible Personality And People Hate Me When They Meet Me

That’s what I told myself this morning when I didn’t get a client I wanted. It was the only logical explanation as to why I received their email late the previous evening informing me of their “hard decision” to “go in another direction.”

Since no other reason was offered, I permitted my mind to wander the vast desert of doubt — a place I like to call Doubt Desert — to mull over all the valid reasons why my horrible personality must be blamed.

This was not a cold pitch. This meeting was so warm I could fry an egg on it. I had a personal introduction. Okay, so the person who introduced me doesn’t hate my horrible personality. But to be fair, he is a lawyer (haha).

I’m not new at this, nor am I so old I carve words on stone tablets. I’m also an innovative thinker.

I ruminate some more

During the meeting, I brought up all my oodles of experience. I must admit that my experience was not exactly what they were looking for. But all the podcasts to which I subscribe tell me not to let lack of experience stop me. After all, I can speak English and write strings of words down that mean things. Perhaps I falsely deduced that this was good positioning.

Right.

I brought my relevant samples with many of the words in strings that mean things. He oohed and ahhhed as he skimmed them. Asked me if he could keep them.

“Absolutely, I brought them for you.” Because that’s the kind of gal I am. I’m a giver.

But I know my value. I have an hourly rate. Since this was a rush job with some specific needs, I added on another ten. I stated my rate simply. Confidently. He wrote it down with nary a blink.

So far, so good.

Then the Big Guy walked in looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. My nice guy walked out. Shut the door behind him.

Ummm.

“What do you think about this project” He asked in a growl that reminded me of Lou Grant.

“I think it sounds great.” I smiled while the Mary Tyler Moore show opening played in my head.

I’m an experienced woman. I’ve been around. Well, all right, I might not’ve been around, but I’ve been… nearby.

I do that when I get nervous. I have an entire library of silly scenes, montages, music videos and other sundries that my also-me uses to steal my focus. It’s a wonder I haven’t stepped out in front of a bus.

Mr. Grant stared at me like I just served him one grilled cheese with a cockroach on the side.

“Great? What does that mean? You mean great for the consumers? Great for the investors? What exactly do you mean?”

“UhhhhhImeant that consumers and investors alike will benefit from this project as it saves time and money and is poised to be a major player in the e-commerce marketplace.”

I clamped my lips tight together. Didn’t blink, breathe, twirl my hair, check my phone…

I wish I could tell you the above strategy was some Art of War thing. But another thing also-me does is talk a lot so sometimes I have to give her a cup of juice and make her sit in the corner. Talking only to fill in silence is probably not a quality Mr. Grant looks for in a writer. Or human being.

Mr. Grant rubbed under his glasses so hard, I thought he was gouging out his own eyeballs.

“Why do you think people will buy this product?”

I told him why. I told him from the perspective of a mom who needs more hours in her day and as a consumer who now wonders why no one has thought of something so brilliant before.

He looked so tired.

He stood. I stood. We shook hands and he said, “we’ll be in touch,” and walked out and back into the boardroom at the other end of the hall. A room from where, I realized, a lot of yelling was coming.

Product development is high stakes. In that boardroom, sat a couple of guys who had put their personal lives and any wealth on hold hoping for something big. When I say big, I’m not talking Shark Tank big, but billions big.

I left feeling buoyant, high on the entrepreneurial vibrations. I found myself really hoping that my couple thousand words would be the ones that go into a proposal resulting in a shift in the way we think about time and commerce. I’m not surprised a couple of VERY smart post-grads could come up with such an idea. Probably over beers. I bet they still have the cocktail napkin scribbled with the first notes.

So, y’all I’m bummed. I wish I had the Mary Tyler Moore spunk that kept Mr. Grant from firing her. But I’m glad they found a writer who was a better fit for their vision.

And that’s what I put in my thank you note.

Confessions of An Aging Woman in the Millennium

Since you asked in your mind, I’m 47. I just typed 46 and had to change it to 47. I don’t know why I got that number down wrong. Except I usually have to pause and try to remember what year it is, what day it is or how old I am. It can take me awhile to check in places, like the doctor’s office or an auto service center, because to me it still feels like 1994, even though I know it’s not. I have to look up and ask someone, “What year is it?”

I’m not particularly proud of anything I did in 1994. It was a pretty basic year. Another nice, round year that often comes to my mind is 2004. Perhaps those years represent the potential of doing Something Important before the hump years of 1995 and 2005 and the subsequent downhill racing toward a new decade.

My favorite decade was actually the 2000s. I got married, bought a house and had a baby. I built a solid career in hospitality sales. At 35, I got to leave the workforce and stay at home with my son. All good stuff.

Lordy, lordy. Look who’s 40

Then I turned 40.

Now I’m not a big believer in making over-the-hill jokes when someone turns 40. Everyone knows 40 is the new 30. Back in ancient times, when my mother turned 40, we had a big birthday party for her and invited all my parent’s friends. Our house was decorated with black balloons and banners with bons mots like “Happy 40th Birthday! RIP Youth.” We had a cake with black icing and all the adults drank too much pink wine, and rum and cokes, and flirted with each other. My sister and I were in charge of the music. We played disco and new wave and everyone danced in the living room because we moved the coffee table to the garage.

Back then, turning 40 was the end of an era.

I’m like approaching 50 and, dammit, I still don’t feel middle-aged. But peering at 20-something strangers over the tops of my glasses while I fill out a form in cursive, or doing something truly crazy and old like writing a check, and asking what year it is does not help my case.

So, here I am, stuck between the heydays of my 30s and the looming of my 50s, in my current state of being, my 40s. My 40s are fine. Thanks for asking. I’m still married. My husband still loves me, God bless him. We’ve made a cross-country move and the baby is growing into tweenage-hood.

But recently, I attempted to revive my old sales career. I turned to the Internet Experts for advice (sigh) on how to re-enter the workforce after SAHP (stay at home parenting).

I’ll just “forget” my blouse and then no one will care when I graduated.

Arguably, the most useful tip? Remove all the years from your resume.

Do not list graduation dates. Delete dates of previous employment. Arrange your CV (What the hell is a CV? I have a rez-oo-mey.) so no one can guess your advanced age. Arrange it by skill. Avoid chronological order like the plague. The plague, you see, is a medieval time, 100-percent fatal disease, which explains why it should be avoided. I’m trying to be inclusive of all ages here, which is more than I can say for all the potential hirers that saw and discarded my RESUME because of all the years listed on it that were prior to the millennium.

I have mixed emotions about removing my years. Wisdom and experience are good things. But, I’m not crying ageism here at all. If anything, I FEEL SORRY for the managers who have to train these youngsters on everything from typing on a desktop keyboard to talking to people on a telephone. I suppose young people work cheaper too. They also bring fresh ideas and energy, but whatever.

As for my 50s, I’m kind of looking forward to them. Anything has to be better than floating through the 40s, where according to the Internet Experts, you can only wear matte makeup and clothes that draw attention away from the neck.

If you haven’t turned 45 yet, just wait. You will hate your neck. Forget your thighs. Necks will be the new thighs.

So bring it, 50s. You’re the next big decade. I’m ready for menopause and having people tell me I look great and to stop telling me I look tired. Something about being in your 40s means you look tired all the time and people feel like they should tell you this. I KNOW I look tired. We had basketball practice until 9:00 p.m. last night, okay?

But no one tells 50 plus-year-old women they look tired. They always “look great.” And you can stop right there. No need for the qualifier of “for your age,” unless you like having a lunchtime martini flung at your face. I’ll do it too. I’m fifty years old. Soon. What year is it?