I’ve spent the last 24 hours worrying about my review, and apropos of nothing, as I was washing my hands a few minutes ago, I figured out why.
Two years ago, in a review for a different company, my boss told me he’d gathered feedback from people who worked with me throughout the year. Which he then presented to me anonymously. They comments were not especially positive. The one that sticks with me is that someone called me an Eddie Haskell. Meaning, I suppose that I was slimily pleasant but essentially insincere. Or, that I have curly hair and I am a weasel?
Since I don’t know who said it, I’ll never know what they meant. There were a half dozen or so that basically said I was all style, no substance. And a few that said I was polite but inept. It was brutal. It was character assassination.
I’m sure I cried in my boss’ office, but it happened so often, who can remember specifics? That job was a bad fit. I was bad at it, and my boss and I were both too stubborn to surrender. Because he liked me and I liked him. The job…I hated.
On the day we chose to "end my time with the company", I was terrified, demoralized and thrilled to be cut free from misery of what had become a vaguely abusive relationship (with the job itself, not the boss).
I should have had the sense to leave when someone anonymously called me Eddie Haskell – because that’s the kind of thing you should have the balls to say to my face. Or in this case, ovaries.
So here’s the thing. This job is a good fit – it’s something I enjoy, and I’m good at it. So if the new boss calls me an Eddie Haskell, I won’t cry. I’ll simply stand up and in the words of Woody Guthrie, say, “So long, it’s been good to know ya. And by the way – that’s a very lovely dress you’re wearing Mrs. Cleaver.”
Word.
Two years ago, in a review for a different company, my boss told me he’d gathered feedback from people who worked with me throughout the year. Which he then presented to me anonymously. They comments were not especially positive. The one that sticks with me is that someone called me an Eddie Haskell. Meaning, I suppose that I was slimily pleasant but essentially insincere. Or, that I have curly hair and I am a weasel?
Since I don’t know who said it, I’ll never know what they meant. There were a half dozen or so that basically said I was all style, no substance. And a few that said I was polite but inept. It was brutal. It was character assassination.
I’m sure I cried in my boss’ office, but it happened so often, who can remember specifics? That job was a bad fit. I was bad at it, and my boss and I were both too stubborn to surrender. Because he liked me and I liked him. The job…I hated.
On the day we chose to "end my time with the company", I was terrified, demoralized and thrilled to be cut free from misery of what had become a vaguely abusive relationship (with the job itself, not the boss).
I should have had the sense to leave when someone anonymously called me Eddie Haskell – because that’s the kind of thing you should have the balls to say to my face. Or in this case, ovaries.
So here’s the thing. This job is a good fit – it’s something I enjoy, and I’m good at it. So if the new boss calls me an Eddie Haskell, I won’t cry. I’ll simply stand up and in the words of Woody Guthrie, say, “So long, it’s been good to know ya. And by the way – that’s a very lovely dress you’re wearing Mrs. Cleaver.”
Word.
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