Supposedly eleven people were downsized today from my place of confinement... uh, employment. Three we knew from a different department, then the rumors started to fly about the others. By the time I left for the day, the folks in my area were all a-twitter yet unscathed, but I'm sure that tomorrow when I walk in the door, I'll hear who it was. Or have someone waiting for me with the dreaded box. That's what they do, give you a copier paper box and tell you to clear out and hit the road. No one's safe in today's economy and the industry that I unfortunately stumbled into after my last job ended is no different. But you can't dwell on it or live in fear. Prepare, maybe; let it paralyze you, no. If we had a national health care plan, I wouldn't even worry about it. Hell, I would have quit where I'm at long ago. Between guitar lessons, gigs and tips, personal chef opportunities and some other odd jobs, I could easily cobble together enough self employment to make ends meet. But we need health insurance and it's too damn expensive to buy on a cobbled income. (And it would cost way more than five thousand dollars, so don't be fooled, friends.) So if I get "the box" I'll head on down the road to Quik Trip or Trader Joe's or someplace else that's always hiring and offers health insurance. Even in a bad economy, a former retail management refugee can always make a comeback. Just go with the road.
