You know, I was sitting here at my computer, job hunting — which isn’t as easy as it sounds right now — when I realized the activity didn’t do much more than depress me.
Now, I’m not going to sink into a self-destructive cycle of alcohol, drugs and vomit. But I’m a little nervous about the prospect of panhandling and living out of our car and eating from dumpsters. (Not really. Not yet, anyway.) I have to look — I know that, nothing will happen if I don’t — but GOD, it’s depressing.
For one, this marks the fifth straight year I’ve been contracting. (Not to mention the 21 months I spent out of work after getting laid off from my last full-time gig.) For those of you who haven’t had the privilege of hearing me complain about this over the four- or five-year life of my blogging, “contracting” is a fancy-dancy, new-fangled way of saying “temporary employee.” Sometimes, they come complete with the carrot-and-stick of “contract-to-hire,” but for the most part, the IT industry loves contractors. It’s like disposable cell phones. Use them for what you need, then throw them away.
Now, the reasons for my being a contractor are manifold, and it’s hard to explain to someone who things on a simplistic basis. And it’s very difficult to raise a family of four on insufficient wages, so the lure of the higher pay, even without the comfort of stability or benefits (health and/or fringe) is very strong. But the biggest reason I’m a contractor is probably because I let so many chances get by me, first when I was young … and then when I was too old to have youth as an excuse. *Sigh*
The bitch of it all is, I haven’t been able to get and stay on my feet long enough to do anything about it, and as demands of life grow and compound, I don’t know when — or if — I ever will. All of this because of some stupidity, in what seemed minor things at the time(s). And they’re huge … bigger than I could’ve ever imagined.
What about you? Have you got any Ghosts of Mistakes Past haunting your present, threatening your future? What clanking, clanging chains do the skeletons in your closets rattle to remind you of the zigs that should’ve been zags, or the lefts which should’ve been rights?
Sound off, y’all. Misery loves comp’ny. 😉
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