So, you say you want to be in Management.


You don’t.

I’ve worked a wide assortment of jobs from dishwasher to grave headstone digger to bartender to programmer to supervisor to director. Let me save your life by advising you to avoid the upper ranks. You’re too focused on the dollars and it makes no sense. You need to factor in the stress, loss of time, and utter frustration of sitting through hours of meetings with stupid, boring people who are all fighting for attention.

The ideal job is consultant. Mind you, my writing from home job sucks not, yet I need to get out of the house occasionally and have some human (as opposed to feline) interaction, so I don’t lose all my social skills. As a consultant, contractor, or specialist you get to show up, take instruction, do your thing, leave with a check, and do so with minimal dealings with corpocrats.

When you’re managing, you can instruct, direct, and evaluate people. Sounds like power, right? It’s not. You don’t have the control you need over these animals to ensure they do as you intend. They’ll disappoint you frequently and you’ll have minimal recourse, lest ye be dragged into court for abusing the power you thought you had. So, instead of correcting the poor behavior of these giant children, all you can do is vent your frustration to your peers, bartenders, and spouse. Guess what? They have their own problems and don’t want to hear about yours.

You know how senior managers spend most of their days? In unproductive meetings. I’d rather be tied to a rack and covered in ticks. The entire meeting is spent trying to figure out how to seem interested while sneaking a peek at your cell phone in hopes that an exciting news item or email arrived during the time-suck. You sit there attempting to hold in a coffee fart and keep your chin away from your chest while your mind wanders away from reality and keeps you from suicidal tendencies.

“The purpose of today’s meeting is to discuss the …”

Why is his skin so bad? Fuck. A face like a hard block of Parmesan after it meets the cheese grater.

“Our client is expecting us to redesign his …”

I bet she beats off at her desk. Little whore.

“On slide number two, we can see that customers have been …”

Jesus, somebody actually married this idiot and allowed him to penetrate her. Oh, how I’d love to meet this soulless woman and ask if his six figures are worth it.

“We’ve been studying this heat map and determined that …”

That blouse doesn’t fit her, and what has she done to her eyebrows? She looks like a fucking albino zombie with back boobs.

“We’ve adjusted next quarter’s spend to include design changes …”

He’s a master ass-kissologist, who has suckled his way toward stock options, a corner office, and prescription medication.

You don’t want to sign up for this game. Sit in a corner, take up as little space as possible, put on headphones, and try to blend in with your surroundings … then, hurry home with most of your sanity intact.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.