November 15–30, 2002 — Anything to get me through the day

Being a massive, multinational corporation with a significant human resources department, my current employer is a bit stricter about probationary periods and performance reviews than Georgina was when I worked at Booster Juice. Because of this, I spent the last three months on my probationary period, wondering when the axe was going to fall.

My name tag announces my hire date as August 12, 2002, which makes November 12 the end of my probationary period. On the days leading up to the twelfth, there were many jokes about firing me now while they had the chance, but I somehow made it through and had a Personal Development Interview scheduled for the nineteenth.

I had to fill out the same forms as my manager before the interview, assessing myself. (They were the first IKEA documents I’d seen that didn’t follow font usage guidelines, but I think I might’ve been the only one to notice.) I tried to be critical and thoughtful and constructive, but I was desperate for things to write about. I listed my inability to memorize the phone extensions of every furniture department as one of my weaknesses.

My managers had no criticism. I was surprised; I thought they had to say something negative. It seemed mandatory. I thought they’d mention the time I wore a black t-shirt under my uniform (only white shirts are allowed), or the night I swiped myself out twice, or the fact that I often (always?) forget to swipe for lunch. But they didn’t mention any of that.

Finally a permanent employee, I went back to my station. At the end of my shift, I counted my cash tray and was short for the first time. Five cents. I acted distraught, only partially joking. It is, after all, a slippery slope...

The store Christmas party came and went, and I decided not to go. It was at the CN Tower. I told people that I wasn’t going because I was afraid of terrorist attacks, heights, eating in public, eating food that I didn’t prepare myself and social gatherings. People still called me a snob and told me that I missed a good time, but, had I gone, I know I would have spent the night trying to chip my way through the glass floor of the observation deck. I was happier at home. Though I’m told this damages my chances of advancing to assistant manager.

My birthday also came and went, and I decided not to go to it, either. It still came to me, though. But only sort of; I did my best not to acknowledge it. It was less involved than last year, and last year’s festivities were limited to Nathan coming by with pizza and playing Scrabble with Johnston and me. So I’m on the right track.

For reasons that I can’t begin to get into or that I’ve explained in previous journal entries, the second half of November was very confusing. Uncertainty built up in my life and in the lives of my friends, and I didn’t feel like there was much left for me to hold on to.

I turned 21 at a time when I was dedicating my days to work and my nights to checking our live-release mouse traps. My part-time job and my battle against an infestation of mice were the most reliable things in my life, though I tried to convince myself otherwise.

My dad suggested years ago that I write a letter to myself and keep it sealed until I turned 21. I’m glad that I didn’t; I can barely meet the low expectations that I have for myself now, much less the hopes I had when I was 16.