Corporate America: When You’re 50+ And Struggling With The Copier

You graduated from a reputable engineering school and a fancy MBA program. Your 20s was a flurry of exciting opportunities, new colleagues, challenging projects. You worked long hours, traveled on business class and busted your once-toned 32-inch waist. You felt the pride of your first 6-figure year-end bonus. You felt the anticipation of when that bonus will have 6 zeroes — that was the 10-year plan and you were on track.

The 30s came. Child rearing took over and kept you busy. Which was just as well because midway through your 30s, you realized you were not among the echelon of top performers meant to rule. They had the secret ingredient or ingredients you somehow lacked — better street smarts, smoother political skills, perhaps the “right” gender, racial or socio-economic background appropriate for the times we live in.

In your 40s, your career solidly stalled. At this point, Corporate America had clearly defined tiers of Management, Middle Management and everyone else. You’ve acquired sufficient knowledge and seniority to occasionally add value, but your supervisor called the shots. You had a few underlings reporting to you who rather not report to you. They constantly angled for new opportunities and you were in their way. Correction, they did not want to be you. Deep down you were envious, because they had options and you did not.

Thankfully, relief came in your 50s. The break-through had nothing to do with you, not directly anyway. The kids left home for college. You hoped the more responsible of the two kids would move to the West Coast so you can visit the vineyards more often. Your other hope was the more cavalier kid would stay closer to home so your wife would worry less. A modest amount of mother’s worry was healthy, giving you more time for personal activities.

Today, you’ve managed to find a cul-de-sac at work. Chief Engineer or Head of Quantitative Finance, you’re called. You don’t actually do the hard coding or modeling anymore (not that you have in the past 10–15 years). You attend meetings with clients but mostly you introduce new people and domain experts. You attend conferences. You no longer meet with the big wigs in the company although you are frequently invited for mentoring seminars. Don’t find a job, find a career you are passionate about is a mantra you hate but often use. Everyone has to find their own path in life, right?

You find yourself watching Netflix during your train commute, instead of the Wall Street Journal which has been your mainstay for three decades. Your favorite show currently is 90 Days Fiance, watching vapid people ruin lives. They don’t seem very different from many of your ex-colleagues who overtook you in the career-climbing ladder — they are extremely good at self-promotion. Some mornings, ten years to retirement is all you can think about.

But the worst part of your job — the one act that humiliates you more than any other — is when you find that great article you want to share with your wife, but struggle with the office copier that seems to get replaced every year. Every year, there seems to be more buttons, more screens, more headache.

You only have access to a pooled administrative assistant, and you’re rather afraid of asking her to assist you in anything in case she complains to HR that you are behaving inappropriately. You could try asking your junior colleagues but then they’ll know you’re obsessed about Donald Trump (hate him with a vengeance, in fact, because unlike you his mediocrity seems to get rewarded at every turn of his life).

You sometimes feel young enough that you want to wipe your slate clean. Could you start over — do things a bit differently in the spouse selection/family front? You dwell over the mistakes — should you have chosen a different major in college? Left for Europe for that Siemens job in the 90s? Maybe you should invest 10% of your net worth into a startup, could that be your ticket to fame in 2020?

But reality sinks in. It is obvious to everyone that you have baggage. You wish you were a blank canvas, but what you are is a crumpled piece of paper like the thousands of tonnes that are discarded, recycled and shredded every day in Corporate America.

You’re a clog in the machine — one in five million MBAs in America.

You and your comfortable middle-class, hardly-rockstar existence. Living but wishing you were living somebody else’s life.

Jay Gho is a New Yorker who loves dogs, cooking and Orange is the New Black. And yes, he has an MBA! Contact him at jay@jaygho.com.