Of Lunch Beers and Breakdowns

I almost quit my job on Friday.

I did!  It’s true.

It all started out simple enough back in August.  I took a job way below my intelligence and skill level because I needed the pay and benefits.  I learned everything quickly, I proved my worth to my coworkers, and I found myself breezing through without a care (or an intellectual stimulus) in the world.  Two months later, I was asked to take on an additional assignment (as well as additional pay) to assist a coworker who was covering for an open position, and was also preparing to go out on maternity leave.  Who doesn’t want more money and a little bit of a challenge?  Well, the little challenge became overwhelming as more and more duties were piled on (without corresponding piles of money).

It was then that the new boss started.  He seems great.  He’s got a sense of humor, he’s got experience in the industry, and he’s willing to learn about what we do and what we need to accomplish.  Better yet, he was very intrigued to learn that only I and one other coworker held a high-level degree.  Betterer yet, upon our initial meeting, he thought I was eight to 10 years younger than I actually am.

So with the promise of better times on the horizon, I prepared to come to work this past Monday and tackle a big project: assisting my previously mentioned coworker with the task of mailing diplomas out to 990 December graduates.  I readied myself as she asked me to start putting labels on the mailers.  I dutifully began peeling, sticking, and sorting.  I labeled mailers for four hours until the last label was attached and my poor sad hands had turned into misshapen claws.  I went to report to my coworker: partially to tell her I was done, partially to ask where the hell she had been that was so much more important than finishing her project.

“Okay, I just finished printing the diplomas,” she said,  “They’re ready to be put in the mailers.  I want them to go out tomorrow.  But I’m not feeling well, so I’m going home.  Be sure that gets done…they absolutely need to be out before the weekend.  I’ll see you in the morning.”  With that, she was gone.  I took a deep breath and retreated, enormous stack of diplomas in hand, to the fort I had constructed of boxes full of mailers.

That day, boyfriend took me out to lunch.  It was then that I made an important decision: if I were to make it through the day, I would require some assistance.  I would partake in a lunch beer.  It wasn’t a full lunch beer, to be fair.  We ordered a sampler of five tiny baby beers.  I myself enjoyed a Big Gruesome, a chocolate peanut butter stout from Spring House Brewing Company, and a Mad Elf, a lovely ale from Troegs Brewing Company that blends, cherries, honey, and chocolate.  I’m no beer expert, but I must say, I do love alcoholic beverages that taste like dessert.

When I returned, the diplomas stared up at me with malice.  I would not be defeated my something so silly, I thought.  Not while I was full of beer!  Two of my coworkers joined and we worked until the end of the day, finishing nearly half of the job with only a few issues cropping up.  This would be no problem!

The next morning, my coworker, the one whose job I had been helping with, called in sick.  My sanity shattered.  Helpful coworker patted me on the back and offered her help.  We soldiered on until only a few problem diplomas were left: five students, we determined, had given no mailing address.  One lonely diploma and folder remained, but did not match…and I realized that I had placed a diploma in the wrong mailer the day before.  Normally, in such a situation, I would just call the student and warn her of the issue.  But I knew that the coworker in charge would become more than a little enraged, which was confirmed by others in the office.  I admitted my mistake to the boss and vowed to rectify it.  One coworker, ever so concerned with providing the most accurate picture of every situation, made sure to tell everyone in the office (ESPECIALLY the new boss) that she had pointed the diploma in question out to me, but I still paired it with the wrong mailer.  True, yet so very, very annoying.

Always one for a hopeless adventure, I decided to venture to the college mailroom to see if the batch from yesterday had been mailed.  Helpful coworker tossed me into her car and drove me there, more than happy to get out of the office on a Friday morning.  We found the stack untouched and quickly uncovered the rogue diploma.  Relief washing over me, I conspired with helpful coworker:  while we were in the mailroom, why not help out our poor overworked mail room employee by putting postage on the 600 diplomas that awaited attention?  We tracked down a technician who, eager to escape any type of work, taught us how to use the postage machine.  There we stood for the better part of an hour, running mail, stacking it into bins, and laughing about how much better it was than sitting in our awful, tension-filled office.

After we finished, I matched the last two diplomas up with their rightful mailers and got them out of my sight as quickly as possible.  Honest coworker reminded me once again how funny it was that the one she mentioned was the one I had messed up.  SO FUNNY, HONEST COWORKER.  I sought a peaceful, quiet Friday afternoon; what I received was the slowest 3 hours of my life, full of angry parents, ungrateful students, and computer issues galore.  I found myself staring miserably at the Pitt water bottle situated at the edge of my desk, tears welling up in my eyes.  I’M SORRY, PITT!  I TOOK YOU FOR GRANTED AND I’M SORRY!

The whole ordeal reminded me of one of the 12 things I learned in undergrad as a history major:  the concept of the J-curve.  Sometimes, conditions become drastically worse in a sudden plummet.  People drudge through their days quietly at rock bottom without much of a peep.   But when things improve just a bit, that little upward swoop at the bottom of the J, people get a taste of what improvement can look like.  And they want more.  At these points in history, you have your uprisings, your revolutions, and apparently, your lunch beers.

So tomorrow, I will go to work.  I will complete the tasks assigned to me.  I will plaster on a smile and laugh at stories about everyone’s weekend.  Inside, however, I will be formulating an escape plan.  Will the changes be a result of the new boss and the shake-ups he’s hinted at during our first few staff meetings?  Or will they come from a new, unrelated opportunity that has yet to reveal itself?  I can’t be sure just yet.

But there is one thing that I am very, very sure of:

Those changes are coming.

And that I don’t like my job.

Oh, and that I miss Pittsburgh.

(Okay, there is more than one thing I’m very, very sure of.  Sorry.)