I was staring at the ceiling last night, entranced by the lamplight on the walls. I thumbed the corner of the cushion as I curled my arm up, the doona crunching comfortingly around my neck.
“It’s been seven years,” I said aloud. I stopped playing with the cushion.
“It was seven before that too,” I answered myself, almost in disbelief.
My private revelation was that I’ve been through massive job/career changes every seven years. This week marks possibly another notch in the Meyer resilience belt.
In 1998 when I was a 22-year-old travel agent with big fluffy hair, redundancy felt like a blip on the radar. I had no loans, no cares and no idea it was coming.
In 2005, I avoided redundancy by being offered a job transfer to Melbourne, which I gladly accepted. I had a mortgage with Dawn and two tiny babies, one a week old.
Today, I have my own mortgage and two mini men to care for and still quite unruly, fluffy hair.
I welcome the change to be honest. I just don’t like the uncertainty that comes with this.
It’s so different from my first time, it’s almost the opposite. I’m more aware of it coming and also have some experience under my belt, emotionally even, to deal with this.
A guy at work asked me if I’d go on a holiday with my payout. I laughed.
“Hmmm, no. I’ve got a house and kids to look after.”
To be fair, I probably asked some old(er) guy the same question when I was in my 20s.
I was walking home yesterday and thought of my Nana. The perspective of her worrying about her jam over her health was a nice reminder I have greater things to worry about.
For instance, if I became homeless, where would I put my art? How do I keep my cellared wines at the right temperature while living in Hyde Park under a bench?
