As evident by recent status updates, I HATE cover letters. I hate writing them, reading them, editing them, giving up and sending them, the whole situation. I realize that they are necessary but can’t help questioning their true purpose. Are we supposed to view them as tools for showcasing our verbosity(big word 🙂 )? How over/underqualified we are for that position? Or how well we seem to grasp the job description? All three while remaining engaging, official and short? Not a challenge at all…
Cover letters make me miss the days of reports and papers. Sure, we were forced to read some of the most boring articles and books. But in the end, you got to state your opinion/take on a specific question and back it up with facts and/or examples. Of course, your professor could disagree or point out something you missed but all you had to do was have an opinion and express it with grammatical correctness (not to be confused with political correctness). Either way, the whole thing was about something you thought, not on yourself.
The fact that I am about to write this on a personal blog seems to discount what I’m about to say BUT I don’t like writing about myself. In a regular conversation, if you were to ask me about myself, I’d stammer out a list of general qualities. But to really know what type of employee, friend, sister, etc, I was, you’d need stories, anecdotes and personal opinions. Since a cover letter is used, if not expressly meant, to replace a first meeting, for good or bad, you’re given the opportunity to finely craft and proofread your first impression.
I’ve tried to view a cover letter as just a resume in paragraph form but that tactic is flawed. A resume is supposed to tell what you’ve done while a cover letter is supposed to tell who you are. That’s a lot of pressure for 3-4 paragraphs. Plus, isn’t the whole thing about what you need in an employee and not really about me?
Regardless of how I feel about them, cover letters aren’t going away. I just have to accept them as a part of the process and remember a really good one could help end the process for me.
I believe I would be the perfect fit for this position because….
Alternative title: My Body: More than the Sum of Its Faults
(I couldn’t resist. Gotta love Youtube)
Like any normal, American woman, I’ve had issues with my body image. And by issues, I mean minor annoyances. I’ve been blessed enough to not feel the need to go to extremes. When I was skinny, I accepted being skinny. When I had a roll or two, I just had a roll or two. Deep down I knew my issues were minor. But nothing’s truly minor to a 14-year-old, 19-year-old, or even a 25-year-old. You just debate whether the pain and cost of doing something about it is worth the benefits. In my case, it never seemed to be.
Growing up, I, of course, saw the same models, singers and actresses everyone else did. They were all beautiful because someone else said they were. But in my head, Whitney Houston was gorgeous b/c she could sing (despite the ridiculous crimped blond wigs). Naomi Campbell was intriguing b/c she would’ve failed the paperbag test miserably and everyone still loved her. Cindy Crawford was cool b/c no one seemed to care she had a mole, oh, excuse me, a “beauty mark”. Madonna had a big gap that no one seemed to notice. I found these women and countless others interesting because we were all supposed to pay attention to what they could do and not the small things that would’ve been hinderances to people in the real world.
As I got older, I began to identify with women and characters who suffered the same ill fates as I did (or what I considered to be ill at the time). Storm was my favorite X-Men, not b/c of her powers (although controlling the weather would be pretty cool) but b/c she was tall, slender and black. (Don’t even get me started on Halle Berry being cast in the movie. I love her but she’s SHORT!!!) Kate Hudson became cool in my eyes not b/c of her skills but b/c she’s rather flat-chested. The Jet beauties were interesting b/c they always had big butts. Tyra Banks never lied about her weaves. (I’ve never had one but I understand the desire.) Etc…
Most of the women I’ve named are black. This is not to say that I don’t see the Catherine Zeta-Jones, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Lopez, Lisa Ling or Heidi Klums as beautiful. Of course they are. But they’re just not who I generally measured myself against. What was the point? My mother worked very hard to surround me with milk chocolate-skinned, dark brown-eyed and raven-haired dolls, pictures, barbies, books, etc.
I went through a brief phase of imagining how much easier it would be to be blond and blue-eyed but I emerged content to be brown. Next came the feeling of not being black enough. I seemed to lack the desirable attributes of black women. Instead of full, luscious lips, my top lip all but disappears when I smile (think Jim Carey’s Fire Marshall Bill from In Living Color). The voluptuous coke-bottle figure lovable even with a little extra padding completely missed me. With my small chest, no-existent hips and lack of waist, I was much closer to the $1.79 2-liter bottle. As puberty ended, it became apparent I’d never be a Jet Beauty or Cover Girl. While missing out on those particular careers was fine, the sad truth was still sad.
You see genetics had not been as kind to me as they could have been. The women on either side of my family are uniquely beautiful. Faces aside, you have apples and pears. My mother’s side of the family generally rocks the apples. Red delicious, granny smith, pink lady, take your pick. Top-heavy w/ smaller bottoms and, dare I say it, skinny legs. That shape may not be everyone’s ideal but it is what I saw growing up and expected to resemble. My dad’s family on the other hand were the classic pears. Petite tops and small waists poised upon “thick” bottoms. While one side struggles to find button-ups that don’t gap, the other struggles to find bottoms that fit the ass AND the waist. I could’ve been the classic coke-bottle, big-little-big. Instead, and in keeping with the fruits, I ended up a slightly deformed banana, straight up and down with a butt, only one of the desirable curves. :- ) This realization was only worsened by a “harmless” comment my mother made during my teens. “I used to worry I’d have to chase the boys away with my family’s top and your dad’s bottom. But now, I guess I don’t have to worry.” Thanks, Mom. It’s all pretty funny now but not 10 years ago when I was 15.
To be fair to her, the boys weren’t all that interested in high school (or college for that matter). Between going to a small school, being a smart-ass, and strongly resembling Steve Urkel, no one had to worry about me and the boys. This complete lack of attention (despite my “amazing” outfits haha) probably impacted my self-esteem more than I’d care to admit. Rather than just accept it for what it was, I gave them excuses. “Well, of course he wouldn’t be interested in someone who looks like a 12-year-old boy when I could talk to her…” Colored eyes, longer hair, bigger boobs, a better butt, whatever the case might be. I’ve since outgrown those excuses. A lack of interest is nothing more than that. I’m not interested in every man I meet. Why should I expect or hope for the same? But sometimes you can’t help but slip back into asking “why not me?”
So where’s the resolution you ask? There’s not really one. Am I stressing as much as I used to about my image? No. But I’m also doing more proactively to adapt what I see in the mirror to what I’d like to see. I’m just too lazy to daydream about changes I couldn’t make with a few extra hours at the gym or a trip to a hairdresser. I’m cheap and have no desire to go under the knife now that my wisdom teeth have been removed. If plastic surgery’s the only thing that’s going to make me love the way I look, I guess I’ll have to accept just not hating it.
Realizing why she loves banana bread, smoothies and laffy taffy so much,
Cheesy pop wedding song. 98 degrees are one of my guilty pleasures. White boys on Motown? Come on. I HAD to love them. This wasn’t one of my favorite songs but it works…
98 Degrees “I Do (Cherish You)”
I attended a lovely wedding with a friend this weekend. A quick and simple 25 minute ceremony on a hotel lawn followed by a 5 hour dinner-DJ-dancing reception. The bride looked flawless and the groom looked so happy you just wanted to pinch his cheeks. The grandmas were precious and the mandatory crazy aunt seemed to never leave the dance floor. Classic rock, country, hip-hop, r&b and swing played throughout the night. Wonderful hors d’oeuvre, a delicious dinner, ooh la la pear mojitos to die for. The only thing that could’ve made the whole event better for me would’ve been knowing who the hell these people were.
Aside from my date, Chivis, I knew absolutely no one at the wedding. Leading up to the event, I thought this small fact would be an issue. It turns out that a stranger’s wedding might be the most interesting type to attend. But let’s be clear, I didn’t crash. I was a plus one. 🙂
Normally, when you attend a wedding, you’ve previously known the bride, groom or couple. You have some funny little story about her or an embarrassing photo of him You’ve witnessed some part of their personal and relationship-based trials. You’ve been to one of their apartments or parents’ homes. You’re happy (hopefully) for them because you know what they’ve been through to reach this point. However, when you don’t have any of this background, you don’t need the because. You’re just happy for them.
Her dress was gorgeous. Cool. I’m happy for them. He was on the verge of tears. Sweet. I’m happy for them. Their parents looked so happy. Wonderful. Happy for them. The food was good, DJ on point, string quartet amazing. Happy, happy, and happy.
It was a lot like tuning into a movie that’s been on for a while. You know the wedding scene mean they’ve been through some “things” and persevered but you’re not at all that concerned with the details at the moment. Instead, you want to get caught up in the beauty and hopeful happily ever after. After all, wouldn’t you hope that’s what a stranger would think or feel on YOUR wedding day?
Anyway, as I watched this abstract couple and all of their family and friends celebrate the fact that they’re “sinners who’ve chosen to dedicate themselves to each other” (paraphrased words from the pastor, no joke), I start to consider my own wedding (if). All I can see is the color scheme: black, white and red. (If you’ve ever been to my apartment or spent significant time with me, that can’t be surprising.) I think black and white weddings and classy and simple but I’d still need a little color. But aside from the colors, I’m at a loss. Destination or hometown? Big or small? Church or hotel? Inside or outside, summer or fall, intimate or a celebration? I have no idea and have never spent the time or energy to fantasize about it.
We’ve always been told that girls plan their wedding days from an early age. Sure, I had my Wedding Day Barbie and matching Ken doll growing up. But to me, her wedding dress was nothing more than a white version of the pink ball gowns I already had. In fact, Ken’s tuxedo was more memorable because it was gray and I thought that was odd. In my head, Barbie and Ken were already married so why make a big deal about the day now? I’d quickly move onto wanting Beach Barbie and Dancer Ken (or whatever was in that Christmas’ Toys ‘R Us catalog). My dream was to be a singer, not a wife. (I understand you could do both but when you’re day-dreaming as a child, you can only focus on one thing at a time.)
Now, I don’t mean to sound anti-weddings. I fully support dream weddings and marriages. I think they’re both wonderful and something to hope for (if that works for you). But I’ve just never been in the mindset to plan my own. Rest assured, if it ever happens, I will allow it to consume my every waking moment and turn into a prime candidate for an episode of Bridezilla All-Stars. Bridesmaids beware. Haha. I think I’m just practical enough to not get that caught up (yet). I have to take baby steps like… dating. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the anonymity and easy emotion of stranger’s weddings in person (or onscreen).
I’ve been traveling (and moping) a lot lately. Wyclef Jean’s “Gone Till November”
To break the monotony of unemployment, I flew to both homes last month. A week or so in Phoenix, a few days in Nashville, moms, dads, sisters, brothers, grandmas, friends, babies, bbq and lots of fresh fruit, a proper vacation. Of course, everyone asked me how things were going and the like but everyone (except for my father) only asked once. They pretended to accept my well-rehearsed, positive yet realistic response and let it drop. Ah, family. 🙂
Because I’ve been moping around a lot lately, I’ve started to notice things that could be better but never really mattered before like someone being there to meet me at the airport. Of course, when I’m traveling to see someone, family or friend, there’s always someone there to pick me up. But they’re always in their cars.
I’ve traveled 4-6 times a year for the last 20 years of my life. With parents on different sides of the country and later attending a university in another part of the country, flying has just been a part of what I do. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever flown to go on a vacation with my family, just to go see them. I can distinctly remember thinking how cool it was to be taken care of by the stewardesses (oh excuse me, flight attendants), meeting the pilots, being able to push the attendant button for just about anything I needed. When I was about 6, I remember there was this really sweet stewardess who let me help her serve the drinks. That was when you always got a full can, not just poured glasses. This really scruffy looking guy ordered something alcoholic and let ME keep the change. I felt so special. Haha.
Anyway, back in those days (and probably because I was a minor), people always met you at the gate. My parents were always there and it felt special to be able to look for someone instead of just go collect your luggage. When all of the rules changed, I was already a teenager and didn’t necessarily want my parents to meet me at the gate. I enjoyed the sense of independence. Plus, just meeting me outside is much easier for the people collecting me. As long as we’ve got our cell phones, we’re golden.
However, these recent trips made me think about the feeling of being able to look for someone. I always smile as I pass the security stations and see family and friends with signs welcoming home the soldiers, students, whatever. The anxious boyfriends with flowers. The mother/father with little kids straining to be the first one to see him/her. It’s just so sweet. Someone is that excited to welcome someone home. (In fact, I can distinctly remember the last time someone met me at the airport. It was in high school and a “boyfriend” wanted to see me. He didn’t even drive me home because my mother had arranged to come pick me up. He can just to see me. How sweet…)
Now, I’m not saying that my family and friends aren’t excited to see me. (At least, I’d like to believe they are.) I just think we don’t feel the need to do more than the minimum. We can hug in the car. Catch up as we’re driving home. When I pick people up at the airport, I don’t ever park and wait (unless their flight is running late and then I just wait in the parking lot). We all just pull up to the curb nowadays. What’s up with that? Are our relationships not worth getting out of the car anymore? The first 30 minutes are usually free. It won’t necessarily have to cost us anything but the effort. I can’t complain if I don’t step it up myself. I just wonder if anyone else would care as much as I do…
So I auditioned for a singing contest last weekend. So far I’ve made it through the auditioning process and am on to the 12 week contest. Whoo hoo!!! We’ll have to see what happens. How knows? I could win and be discovered. Haha. Sure, R&B/Pop would be the obvious choice but I’d really love to be the first successful black female country singer. What? I’m from Nashville and I could make a career on ballads rather than abs. Plus, Hootie made it work. (a.k.a. Darius Rucker). Anyway…
I’ve been singing nearly my entire life. Seeing as saying my entire life would be impossible. Thanks to my grandmother being my normal babysitter, I was 5 years old sitting next to her in the adult (a.k.a. old lady) choir singing “Amazing Grace” with the full vibrato of a 60-year-old woman. At age 7, I left the rest of the little kids playing barn animals in the Christmas play at church to sing a duet with the 14-year-old angel. (No, seriously, I got up in my pink footy pajamas for which my mother had made matching ears and a tail to sing with the “Oh so cool” teenager. The things you remember from childhood. And the funny part was that I had a better voice than her. Haha.) Singing Whitney Houston’s “Saving All My Love For You” in a 6th grade talent show. The mother of a classmate who’d rapped Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” told me I had a pretty voice but that my song was completely inappropriate. Funny, right? Going from 1st soprano to tenor in the high school gospel choir because we didn’t have any guys. Being the 1st and 4th Cyclone Idol. Haha, a freshman journalism major beat senior vocal majors. Etc. You get the point. I love to sing and seem to be pretty good at it.
This “natural talent/gift” has always been a source of pride for me. Sure, there are always going to be people who are better than me but they’re not always that easy to find, not like those who are smarter or prettier. Singing was always the one thing that made me special. Not in a way that justified my existence but just enough to make me smile a little.
The weird thing about me performing live is that I don’t really get nervous…until after. I’m confident, almost indifferent. It’s just singing. I probably seem pretty bitchy about the whole thing. That is until I’ve finished the song. As soon as I finish that last note, the awkward pause of silence before applause is nauseating. It’s not even that I’m waiting on the applause. It’s just knowing that I’m finished, that I can’t make it any better, that whatever I just did would have to represent my best. But I’ll be honest, I don’t mind the applause…. 🙂
This contest could prove to be interesting. While it’s my ego talking, I know that I’ll be better than some of the contestants. Sorry, if that’s offensive but it’s true. But boo on the people that are obviously better than me. It’s a 12 week process so I might make it halfway through. I’m just not looking forward to another disappointment.
Let’s just hope I get a job offer before I’m voted off,
Oh, golden Michael. This is probably my favorite music video of all time. Michael Jackson’s “Remember the Time”
Vodpod videos no longer available.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to classify this post. Should it go under Romantic Cynic, Friendly Drama, Family Values, or something entirely different? We can reminisce about just about anything, any type of circumstance or relationship. Sure, romantic may have a physical aspect to remember but friendly could have equally strong inside jokes and family dominating scents or visuals. All in all, I couldn’t decide and decided it’s actually a catchall issue, a part of my current quarterlife crisis.
The last few months have been eventful. Good, bad and ugly. There are parts about the summer to 2009 that I’d care to forget and others I hope I never do. So much of this summer centered around the past; people I knew, places I’d gone, decisions I’d made (or avoided), things I’d said and done. It’s always nice when karma comes back to visit. I’ve done so many good and bad things in my life that I’m never quite sure if I care for the visits. “Oh Jo’van, I’m back. Because you [fill in the blank] three years ago, [fill in the blank] is going to happen to you now.” Thanks, karma. Thanks a lot.
Anyway, with karma making itself entirely too comfortable on my couch, I’ve spent unnecessary hours reminiscing; when things were good, when my life sucked more than it does now (or at least it felt that way at the time), when someone made me feel loved, when someone (or the same person) made me feel pathetic, when I had friends forever and new enemies everyday, when I liked the way I looked, when I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror, when I was smart, when I felt stupid. It always amazes me how much I remember and how much of it I wish I didn’t.
There is nothing wrong with reminiscing. It’s always good to remember where the person that you are today came from. Who made you think that would be okay, or this was wrong? When did you decide to do this and swore to never do that again? Who made you feel happiest and who made you feel less than? When did you first taste this or last like to do that? However, the issue I’ve begun to raise with reminiscing is how much is stings regardless.
Instead of finding lasting joy in remembering the “good” things/times, I find myself almost bitter I’m not experiencing them now. And instead of being happy I’m not in the midst of the “bad” things/time now, I just find myself reliving the pain of those times again. Things have a wonderful opportunity to continue to get worse from here. Inviting those memories into a already [fill in the blank] mind can actually not be healing. For right now, it’s just further frustrating.
This is not to say that I find no joy in my memories. I have so many wonderful things to be happy about, proud of, etc, I just think that for the time being I need to focus on my uncertain, shaky future rather than my defined, unchanging past. I can only imagine what I’ll feel about this time in my life 3, 6, 14 years from now. Everyone is of course defined by their past but who’s to say you can’t custom-design the next revised definition? I can only spend so much time remembering who I was. I need to know who I am right now, the good, the bad and the ugly. Everything else is just a good story to tell, if and when you’re up to it.
Reminiscing can be a double-edged sword and I’m not the biggest fan of bleeding,
I couldn’t find a song to address the topic of my post so I settled on some high-energy, neon-colored, baggy, condom-as-accessories wearing TLC circa 1993. “What About Your Friends”
Vodpod videos no longer available.
I’ve spent the past few days with my family in Phoenix. My younger sisters are still technically teenagers and have high school friends in and out of the house all the time. While school shopping, my youngest sister continued to run into friends. Oh, youth. I was told that at 25 I’m old by a 17-year-old. While I personally disagree, I wanted to quickly leave the situation. I have no desire to go back to high school but still… Aside from feeling a little old and nostalgic as one sister starts her senior year of high school and the other gears up to move to California for college, I miss having friends that you were tied to by nothing more than sharing a class.
Junior high, high school, even college, aside from flirting and fighting, you were surrounded by people your own age with nothing else to do but figure out something together. A friend recently made the point that that’s why so many people find their mates in college. Four years in a small area with thousands of people within three years of your age. The odds have to be in your favor. Graduating and entering the real world, you lose that easy access to potential friends with more things in common than working in the same office, living in the same apartment complex or going to the same gym. Sure, a campus atmosphere may help to foster romantic relationships but it also allows for easy access to platonic relationships.
As an adult in the real world (granted my real world is limited), I find it much more difficult to foster relationships that are genuine. I’ve been lucky to make friends with the people I’ve worked with. However, as I move onto the next professional endeavour (whatever it is), I wonder if my next office/store will have people of similar age, interest and personality. Will I become the “young, unmarried” one in the office? What then?
Another thing I’ve realized about being an “adult” is the minimal purely platonic interaction with the opposite sex. Any single, straight man that I am cordial with now is tied to some aspect of work or is someone else’s friend (usually from high school or college). Gone seem to be the days of just hanging out with friends who happen to be male. Without the platonic common ground to start the conversation, most of my interactions with the opposite sex are under the guise of flirting. Sure, that can be fun but once one of you realizes there’s no spark, it’s often difficult to establish a friendship when there hadn’t been one to begin with.
I miss guy friends, the male perspectives, the big brothers, the ridiculous little brothers. I miss laughing at the stupid comments, complete inability to dress, or snap judgements of the opposite sex. I miss watching football, or grilling, or sitting around in whatever was the closest and cleanest. I like men. I mean I love them and are attracted to them and all. But I also just really love being around men. Because I’m pretty high-maintenance and catty, I don’t particularly care to be around women all of the time. Sometimes I need a break from talking about weight, hair, relationships (real and completely in our heads), clothes, shoes. I’m not saying that women as a whole or my friends are shallow (or my male friends for that matter are all that deep). We discuss whatever comes to mind with few filters. It’s just that what comes to my mind around women and men is usually different. I miss being able to explore that other side every now and again. Sometimes I’d just rather be in the company of people who are not going to over-analyze more than I have. Rather than offer alternative suggestions, I get straight answers.
At my age, it seems I should be (and am) concerned with finding my next romantic relationship. However, sometimes/most times I wouldn’t mind just hanging out with a male friend without the quotation marks or hope of something different.
Now, picking a song about this topic could’ve been easy and relatively current but I just didn’t have the stomach for Kate Perry. So instead, I’ve included a really good song by an artist who just so happens to prefer women. Melissa Etheridge “I Want to Come Over”
My Female Type? Hmmm, that’s an interesting question. And as with most things that interest me, I had to spend way too much time exploring it. I apologize if I offend anyone with my questions or scenarios but just as I make broad assumptions about straight guys, I make generalizations of women, straight and otherwise.
Let me first say that I am a heterosexual. Not a proud one or an apologetic one, just born that way. 🙂 My physical type of man varies but would probably be tall(er than me), slender to athletic w/ dark features. I’d like to feel he’d be able to physically “protect” me from whatever. (Although, I imagine it would be difficult for me to let anyone take care of me.) Personalities aside, there’s something about attraction of security.
With these attributes in mind, I wonder if I’d uphold the same standards for a woman. Would I be interested in someone who was essentially “a big, strong man” with different parts? Would I want to assume the typical “male/dominant” role in the relationship? Yes, I know these “roles” are strongly based on some archaic heterosexual culture constructions and may not always apply in same-gender relationships. But there still seems to be a dominant personality in any relationships, regardless of the gender, size, occupation, or the like.
Moving on the the physical, I have enough insecurities and issues related to comparing my body to other women. Would it be better or worse with a girlfriend? Would I want to be with someone traditionally prettier than me with bigger breasts and smaller thighs? Or would a less feminine woman catch my attention? Could I be jealous of the way my girlfriend looks? Sure, I could feel self-conscious around a really physical fit or Adonis-like man but I couldn’t exactly strive to look like him so it wouldn’t be as bad, I imagine. I know, as with straight couples, the initial attraction is fleeting because it’s all about the chemistry. Blah, blah, blah. But I’m more intrigued by what would attract me in the first place.
I have no answers for these questions. I was just asked and thought I’d explore here. I think the fact that I’m not in the least bit attracted to women and so easily distracted by fine male specimens makes it difficult to dive any deeper. Women are beautiful and deserve to be cherished. I’m just not the one to do it.
Angelina or Brad? Angelina’s gorgeous but it’ll have to be Brad all the way….
“Personal Self-Worth”. Yes, I know it’s redundant but I think there’s usually a significant difference between how one defines oneself to others and how one defines oneself to themself. (So many “selfs”) Your public persona is often very different from the one you face in the mirror alone in your bathroom in the morning or evening (depending on when you’re most self-reflective).
—Warning: This post sounds quite melodramatic. I know. And while I mean evertything I’ve written, they’re not the only things I believe about myself (or anyone else for that matter). I just have too much time on my hands to explore the extremes right now. I’m sure a “I’m F-ing Awesome” post will follow shortly. Just you wait. But with people constantly asking “How are you doing”, sometimes I just want to actually say what’s going on in my head. For now, I’ll just write parts of it.—
When you’re given those personality tests with endless lists of qualities to check off or rank for yourself, what do you always say? I’m always things like strong, opinionated, detail-oriented, cautious, rational. I’m structural and analytical. Anal and organized, cold and serious. My personality tests read like a resume. I sound like the ideal employee to sit in a corner with stacks of papers, a computer, her iPod and the occasional phone call. When in “real life”, I’m nothing if not emotional and desiring to be around other people. Sure, I still come off cold and calculated but that’s because I’ve found people don’t react to fiercely emotional very well. At least with the alternative, I only give up sensitive information when I feel like volunteering it. I’m very rarely asked out right. I imagine that’s because people don’t think I really think (or feel) about those types of things, whatever they may be.
So if I was going to make a list of my “real” characteristics, I’m not sure I’d be able to be that honest with myself. My entire life (as short and uneventful as it’s been) has been built around being in control. I had goals and found ways to easily achieve them. I’ve always been an above average student, a capable employee and a loyal friend. Give me something to do and I’ll simply do it. Need something from me and I’ll simply give it. Now I’m not saying I am always the best but I am nothing if not dependable. Friends get to see the bitchier side but I think they all know if it ever came down to it, my personal opinions and sharp words really wouldn’t mean a thing. But I digress…
My recent job loss was a jolt to my ego, personal self-worth, life-gauge. I did well in high school to get a scholarship for college. I was a high-performing and well-rounded student in college to get a good job upon graduation. I got that good job and moved to a new city to pursue my “future.” I maintained two jobs for nearly three years to be “responsible” and pay off more of my debt. I avoided all things that could get me in trouble, derail me from my goals, negatively affect my future. I didn’t get into relationships because I told myself I needed to “focus”. I didn’t really “enjoy” the time in my life to be acceptably “stupid” or “naive.” And what do I have to show for it now? An apartment full of novelty items that don’t really mean much or provide any comfort, suffocating bills, a desk covered with papers about unemployment, COBRA, contacting creditors, canceled plane tickets, revised resumes and job applications. My life could be 100 times worse but I’m not in the mood to worry about others right now. One of my developing characteristics is relentless selfishness and self-pity. It’s really not attractive.
I was never the pretty one or the athletic one. Never the nice one or the bubbly one. The super smart one or the smooth talker. I was always just the one with the plan and usually the means to accomplish it. Smart enough to get by and pleasant enough to not be completely anti-social. My skills and planning, research and execution made me seem lucky or at least hard-working. Now what? Now what am I? Will getting another job right my world or will this feeling of inadequacy stick with me for a while? I don’t really know but since I don’t want to talk about it, it’ll probably manifest itself in another character flaw, my bitchy desire to push people away when that’s the last thing I need to be doing. But recognizing the problem is the first step, right?
And what makes me inadequate? In this time of stress and drama, I’m not comparing myself to someone or everyone else with some measurable goal in mind. I’m comparing myself to what I think I should be doing and that’s the truly unattainable goal. How can I have a goal if I don’t have a plan? And at this point, my only plan is to get another job that will allow me to use the skills I’ve spent a few years developing and to pay off the debt I’ve spent the same few years collecting.
Of course, no job should define a person and mine never defined me. I am not and never will be software PR. But when having a job that justifies most of your life choices is no longer an option, then what? I have to really like the “personal” parts of myself? That means I have to deal with the not so great parts also. No fun. This job search is another test of my ability to like myself. I’m having to learn to sell myself all over again. It’s been three wonderful years of just doing something, not having to really think about it and why I’m the perfect one to be doing it (or not).
If only my self-worth could be in something tangible and easily adjusted like my looks. Haha. Just kidding. That would probably suck more…
My personal self-worth lies in the ability to stress about all of these things and still just do my thing, whatever it may be. In this case it’s market my marketing abilities. A true test, I guess.
For whatever reason, I am not a fan of nicknames, especially for myself. They’re actually a big pet peeve of mine. Granted, some full names are ugly, awkward or just weird sounding but I’d still generally prefer to use them. If you like your nickname, that’s great. Let me know what to call you and I’ll do my best to remember. But don’t assume I care for mine.
I have always hated being called Tiff. As a child, the name just sounded dumb. I felt I should twist my hair around my finger and pop some gum. Now, I don’t think every Tiff is stupid, silly, whatever. I just personally preferred to be called by my full name. My parents named me Tiffany and I like it. In elementary school, it bothered me so much that the boys would call me Tiff, wait for me to get mad and yell Fanny. Okay, okay. It was pretty clever. Moving on…
Nicknames are innocent enough but I always found it interesting that people naturally assume you’d prefer to be called by a nickname of their choosing. The most common nicknames are short for whatever your “real” name is. Others are based on your personality or some shared event. Okay, okay. They can be terms of endearment BUT I still don’t feel anyone who meets me can/should feel comfortable enough to assume anything about me, like what I’d like to be called. This might all have something to do with the unattractive nicknames I’ve been given in the past like Urkelina on the junior high volleyball team but still. Anyway, I can’t help that one. I was tall, skinny, awkward with glasses and no one could remember that Steve Urkel’s cousin was actually named Mrytle…
The nickname assumption bothers me more in the workplace. Maybe it’s because I’m more concerned with being taken seriously or because I’m not always feeling automatically friendly in the office. Either way, I always notice it there. I generally don’t say anything because it’s not worth the drama but I notice. I generally like to call people whatever name they use to introduce themselves. Another good rule to follow in the office is to call people whatever name they use to sign their emails. If you’re nickname is just a respectable shortening of your real name and not some character assessment like “Smiley”, you should be fine. If you’re Fredrick and say Fred, Fred it is. But if you’re Angelica and don’t sign Angel or Angie, Angelica it is. I just ask that people follow that same rule with me. But I realize that might be asking too much (especially since I have a tendency to over-think these types of things) so I’ll just continue getting used to Tiff. If I don’t correct you or slightly grimace, you’re probably safe.
The Truth: According to Jo'van 