April 12, 2018

e=m(change)^2

"The only constant is change."   -Heraclitus (who is not Louise Hay)

So there's about to be massive upheaval at work and I'm all croggled and need to sit down and make a pros/cons list, but I'm still at that early stage where you sit slightly gape-jawed and zone out because it's too much to think about and you'd rather listen to music in your head and ponder the color of the fabric on your cubicle walls.

There is a job I applied for three times in the past and was turned down each time because somebody better came along.  Now there are ten of them, and I know I should apply because I would get one of the ten, or at least consider myself firmly told loud and clear to never try again if I didn't get one.

I could decide not to try, to stay put because I'm very happy where I am, but even if I do that, there is going to be a mass-exodus in my little room here and new people will be coming in and I might not be able to be the one who sits in the back and cusses a blue streak and makes snarky comments any more.  I might have to rein it in and be stifled.  Right now I can completely be myself.  Everyone in here already knows about my attempt, my orientation, and my propensity for expanding their vocabularies a bit.  For some reason I know all kinds of medical shit, so they call me Dr. Lille.  I have an established identity.  I make our boss laugh.  I make my co-workers laugh.  I'm settled in.

And that is about to be taken away.  So if change is inevitable, I might as well grieve the loss of comfort and face the boulder-roll of fear and make a decision based on everything that is not those two things.  Because I can totally see around the boulder right up in my face.  Yeah.

This is going to sound DeVos-level shallow, but the other job would mean wearing a uniform, and I have amassed everything Old Navy sells for the past two years and I have all these dresses and tights and Mary Jane shoes, sandals and scarves and silky flowing pants and blouses, and I feel good about myself when I wear my clothes, and I'm not going to get that from khaki Dickies men's pants and a polo shirt.  That doesn't sound like a big deal, but, well, it kind of is.

On the other hand, nobody would look at me weird this time if I had a screwdriver in my hand.  I think I was born to be a field tech.  I like climbing ladders and poking my head up into dropped-tile ceilings and making network cables by lining up the tiny little wires.  I've had several of "the guys" pop in and ask me if I'm going to apply, and I get the sense they're not going to take "no" for an answer.  It appears to be a coordinated effort.

That should make me feel really, really good.

But my tennis racket is on the wall now, and the plants that I've had for years that are all healthy and green because they came from Ikea and also they're plastic, and my certificate that one of the guys made for me for dealing with a particularly difficult customer, commemorating the "get your crap off the keyboard" incident of 2016.  I have coffee pods and my calcium chews and my little Ikea lamps.  (P.J. once said the sentence, "But we don't need to go to Ikea this weekend, we don't need anything there."  Isn't she funny?)  I've got Dilbert cartoons pinned to the wall and a place to hang my umbrella.  I have a place.  A space.  It is mine.  I would lose it and be ousted.

My daddy came by an oscilloscope once when I was a kid, maybe while he was doing the electronics correspondence courses.  My wavering looks like the read-out on that little screen.

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