Job Hunting - Not Just for Old Ladies

The closest to perfection a person ever comes is when he fills out a job application form.

Stanley J. Randall

All this talk of weddings and college visits and choices has bypassed another son in my house. One embarking on a new adventure. Remember Jordan? The boy who raises fawns?




And kills rattlesnakes?

Tucked in the middle of that wedding and high school graduation is the completion of a Bachelor's degree in biology -- trip to Arizona for my husband and me to see that boy grasp his diploma. And, of course, college graduations bring gainful employment where children elope from parent's payrolls. Permanently. Right. RIGHT!

In the file of resumes I've kept on my desktop for ready use this past year, Jordan's has the freshest face. Young, unattached, eager to take on the world -- everything he owns will fit in his car, opening up the many possibilities he's finding countrywide that offer his next adventure.

While completing 17 hours of study to adhere to the four year tuition schedule allotted by his parents (those dwindling funds now assigned to his younger brother) each day he searches the wildlife websites for open positions, adjusting his resume and cover letter to fit the job. A science guy, he has utilized his mother's typing fingers to tighten up the verbiage. Makes me feel useful and I'm glad he's asking. (I can fix other people's sentences much better than my own.)

Impatiently, he checks his email to await responses to his applications. Nothing yet. But the windows keep opening, he keeps applying, and he is ready to fly.

If I compare his possibilities to mine, the Midlife Jobhunter, I see a much broader skyline in his search. Youth backs his flight. Although his credentials may not contain as many skills or as much experience as mine, he is more employable simply because he is young, flexible, willing to relocate, and has the energy to work long hours and get his hands dirty.

Not to say midlifers can't do that, but a definite difference exists for those of us no longer trained in the newest technologies. Those that have too much baggage to pack up all our belongings in our Civic and head off down the road. Those that can physically no longer take on the tasks that younger years offered.

Makes for a most exciting time for this young son. One that will strike out on his own and has not completely figured out how exciting life will be.

Another one - that I once carried in my arms - all grown up.

I Got Nothin'

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.

Theodore Geisel

I'm overdue for a post. I'm not even finished writing or visiting all those who left fascinating and most appreciated comments on my last post, but post I must and for my next entry? I got nothin'.

My oldest son, Jacob, walked in a few minutes ago. Caught me taking pictures of my lists which float around in the disorganized muck of my household. Explained to him I planned to use my 'Things to Do' as an excuse for not writing something better.

His reply?

"You can't force a blog post, Mom."

Hmmph. When did he get so smart?

However, now that I have the photos uploaded, I have an idea. Do my lists look like yours?

I'm thinking you are better organized. For if you focus on individual items on these pages like Find a real job or Write resume, you will also find:

Dental appointment
Kill cat for peeing on bathroom rug
Order announcements for Jordan's college graduation

in the midst of

Work out at YMCA
Finish novel
Write non-fiction book proposal

I ask you? What are the chances someone won't need another dental appointment before that novel is done? Or that this list will be around long enough for me to switch Jordan's name to Ian, who begins college in the fall? Or that the cat will even come home after I launched her ass out the back door? (Gag me. YMCA on there again?)

I must be honest. Several checklists hide in the dialogue of my journal, which is sort of a joke to myself. I don't go back and read my journal pages, therefore, whatever I tally there is lost forever. Also not included are the litany of duties I compose during my free hour while substitute teaching. When the last bell rings, I bunch those pages up and float them onto the floor to mingle among the daily handouts the students have left in a similar manner.

I also confess to little notes I leave myself regarding really important things that require immediate attention. Like these.

Notice the olive oil stain. Fresh, of course.

Somewhere I have a list of future blog posts. Not sure where that is right now.

As to that son of mine? Hahaha! I think I just forced a blog post after all!

Teach you to challenge me.

If by chance I haven't found my blog list by February 14th - here's to y'all.

Ode to the One I Didn't Hire

Insight, I believe, refers to the depth of understanding that comes by setting experiences, yours and mine, familiar and exotic, new and old, side by side, learning by letting them speak to one another.

Mary Catherine Bateson

Twenty-five years ago I lived in Salt Lake City and worked as an Office Manager/Accountant for an independent oil company. In need of an Executive Secretary, I advertised the position and received many resumes via the mail.

One resume I immediately discarded. In fact, the two-page document ended up in the trashcan within moments after opening. I’ve never forgotten that moment, and now it comes back to haunt me. Faced with that same situation today, I'd hire that applicant in a heartbeat.

The resume I tossed arrived from a woman in her mid-50’s. (We had to list our age back then.) Somewhere back in ancient times she had graduated from college with a bachelor’s degree, then married, and raised five children. Her resume listed each child by name as though an individual place of employment. She accounted for their educations, their achievements in academics and extra curricula, awards received, degrees earned.

Down the list it went from daughter the teacher to son the dentist. At the end of that muddle, she inventoried where she had volunteered over the past 35 years – PTA, church, boy scouts, girl scouts, and on and on.

I recall laughing, thinking how ridiculous this was. That this resume told me nothing about her qualifications. What she could manage. How could she think she was capable of running an office when all she’d done is stay home and raise five kids? The PTA? Come now.

I was 28 at the time. Married for six years, but had no children. I didn’t have a flipping clue. Three children and 25 years later, I most certainly do now.

Today, this Midlife Jobhunter is most regretful for the disregard shown that mother of five returning to the workforce for whatever reason I never bothered to consider or understand.

As many of you have mentioned in your comments or emails to me, midlife jobhunters are now a vast group (stay-at-home mothers only a portion) competing against the young or those with more complete resumes and education, or skills.

A diversified bunch, we are people in search of a place – taking in stride current situations to adjust to changing times. We are searchers finding our way as empty nesters, or newly divorced, or widowed with a dwindling income. Or one suddenly without an income for any number of reasons. We are searchers who can no longer continue with a current position's physical demands. We are searchers for satisfaction to not necessarily bring in a grand or needed income, but to unearth a creative spirit buried long ago.We are searchers who struggle with labeling talents and contributions, cornering a market on years of gathered work ethic and collected knowledge.

Midlife Jobhunters – a most interesting cluster of seekers. I can only hope that 25 years ago in Salt Lake City, someone smarter than me hired that incredibly overqualified jobhunter .

Who's Got the Funk?

funk 1 |fə ng k| informal noun 1 (also blue funk) [in sing. ] a state of depression : I sat absorbed in my own blue funk

Is it just me? Or does the word blue in that sentence definition seem a tad redundant. I suppose there are some funks that are worse than others. In fact, I think I just came out of one. A long one.

As I've written quite a bit on this blog since it began last January, there has been much to remind me of my age. Such as:

* Assessing what I've been doing, or not doing, for the past 20 years to meld into a resume
* Reading thousands of essays from 17-year-old kids helping little old ladies - like 50 - across the street.
* My oldest son graduating from college and getting engaged
* Middle son beginning his senior year of college
* Discovering arthritis in my feet
* My youngest son embarking on his senior year of high school
* My hot flashes trading places with an occasional period accompanied by a growing gut
* Being labeled an "older voter" - one of those over 50
* Getting serious with exercise and gaining 7 pounds
* 64 days straight of 100+ degree weather
* Trying to figure if going back to school at age 54 makes any sense.

Lest I go on?

Last week I turned 53. Feeling drawn into a deeper mote of mope, I felt the need for a jarring experience. I didn't want to jump out of a plane or ride on my husband's motorcycle. I wanted a controlled leap out the rut. Something to let me know I was alive, but the assurance I'd survive the outcome. Like a ride on the Tilt a Whirl or the Scrambler. Instead, much to my husband and youngest son's surprise, I chose the waterpark, Schlitterbahn.

Best thing I could have chosen.

Even though I was afraid to put this older body into a inner tube and ride through chutes and drops, I did it. My favorite was the free fall slide, just my body on a rolling drop. Even channeled my fear long enough to keep my feet crossed so I wouldn't get a wedgie from the pool at the end of the slide.

At the end of the day, we sat in the swim up hot tub bar, a margarita in hand, and I silently cheered myself. I felt good. Came home with only one bruise on my arm and the knowledge that it wasn't about not being a pussy riding rides or having to do something really stupid to prove something to myself. Instead, taking the opportunity to do something out of the norm. Something beyond the usual.

I still love to lie in my hammock and read for days on end. But I'm not dead yet either.

Suddenly 53 doesn't sound so old.

So, who's got some funk?

funk 2 |fəŋk| |fʌŋk| noun 1 a style of popular dance music of U.S. black origin, based on elements of blues and soul and having a strong rhythm that typically accentuates the first beat in the bar.

Ow!

Please visit my mom at her new blog site Old? Who? Me?