For as long as I can remember, I haven’t considered myself a career-person. The word itself put a sour taste in my mouth. I’ve let it be known that the work I’ve done has been just that. Work. A job. But not a career. I’m not sure what I thought the word career implied. Maybe to call my line of work a career is in some way to call myself some sort of conformist. One of them. I don’t know. It all seems a bit silly now.
I never wanted to define myself by the work I do. Had I found a line of work that I’d have considered worth defining me, well, then perhaps I’d have called that a career. But that line of work hasn’t materialized (yet). And now, here I am, forty three, about to have my second child. It’s been twenty two years since I graduated from university and entered the engineering work force. Twenty two years.
Although I’ve always just called it a job, of course I’ve done my best and given it my all. And now that I’m over forty and have a family, suddenly my perspective is somewhat different, and I’m almost willing to accede that I am, in fact, a career woman. I’ve grown up in this company. I’ve spent the better part of my life here. The people are like family in many ways. We’ve lived our lives here together, day in and day out. We’ve been there for marriages, divorces, children, graduations, retirements, tragedies, victories, sorrows and joys. There is history there. Upswings, downturns.
Where I used to be arrogant and considered that the company was lucky that I chose to grace it with my presence, now I am grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to live my life in the presence of some very fine people and partake in some interesting and rewarding work. The company has afforded me the roof over my head and the clothes on my back. I’ve been blessed to have decent health benefits and good working conditions. There have been some troubled times along the way in which I worked with difficult people in a difficult organization, but even so, the rough spots opened doors to brighter pastures. It’s all been worth it. I have a great position now. I’m settled. I get to do a variety of things, and I’ve made it to a good place. I’m respected among my peers and by my management. There’s no glass ceiling here. I am very content. I think I’ve made it.
Until I became a mother, I never imagined I’d want to stay with this company until I retire. But now that I’m a mother, with the responsibility of raising and nurturing two boys to (God-willing and hopefully) grow into fine upstanding men, the prospect of working until I’m fifty five is no longer unthinkable. What is another twelve years in the scheme of things? Or more than twelve years, even. These boys won’t even be through high school in another twelve years. I can easily imagine working through their high school graduations, and perhaps even beyond.
I’ve given this company my life, and this company has given me my life.
Twenty two years today.
Happy Anniversary.
