I used to work at one of the largest corporate behemoths in the world. As small and insignificant as it can make a person feel to work at a company this size, there were certainly perks. The first year on the job I had three weeks of vacation--one week more than the typical two I'd had elsewhere. Half of my gym membership was paid. The cafeteria food was actually good, and subsidized. Our department had an automatic coffee machine with good coffee; the pantry was full of an unlimited supply of fig newton bars (the Fat-Free ones, as per my request). I was outfitted by an ergonomic specialist and had black puffy things surrounding my work area. I was paid more than I had asked to be when I interviewed. I suppose they couldn't go that low in good conscience, even if I'd asked for it.
The first year I wasn't yet aware that I hated the job. I was a magazine addict and fed off one of the other major bennies of the company, free subscriptions to the company's 20+ titles and heavily discounted CDs. I went to shows at MOMA for half off. And, by virtue of working at this media behemoth, I could attend parties, and people would talk to me, thinking I might get them published. It took nearly two years before I realized how tired I was from nights of insomnia, particularly on Sunday nights, and that I was a jaw-dropping size four because my nerves burned off more calories than I consumed.
"It's hard to believe you were so unhappy," my girlfriend tells me, when we remember those days. "You looked phenomenal!"
Looking phenomenal was, in fact, my job, not being an editor, per se. I'd made enough money at that point to step up the wardrobe and look, for the first time in my life, like a woman, not just a girl. I had a bevy of professionals to help me, including a hair stylist, a colorist, a career coach, a massage therapist. There was one professional that I was lacking, however: a mentor.
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