Job Tales

I’m Too Old To Get a Proper Job

By the time I embark on a career, I’ll be dead

You can run internet simulations on everything these days. From what the weather will be like on the day you die, to what your funeral will cost.

I recently did one to estimate the value of my pension.

It didn’t look good.

Lots of holes and gaps that looked more like a dentist’s report than a fiscal statement.

I’ve been attending job training down the Pôle Emploi (French equivalent of the Job Centre), to try to get a better job.

When the trainer on my first day asked me what my métier was, I stared at her blankly.

She asked if I was OK.

I said I was preparing a list in my head.

So she moved on to the other job-seekers in the room, most of whom have been in the same profession all their lives.

I thought this was incredible. Wow! Their job searches must be so straight forward. Their CVs so simple:

Left school — got a job — stuck at it

Mine says: left school — fucked around for thirty years.

I asked the job trainer what my prospects were. Realistically.

She grimaced. ‘A lot of people approaching fifty are thinking of retirement, not starting a career.’

Not what I wanted to hear.

What I wanted to hear was.

‘The 50+ job market is booming. So take it easy for a few more years.’

Great!

So what actually have I been doing all this time?

It’s a good question.

In my 20s, I didn’t really do anything. Bummed, partied, travelled, and took odd jobs when I could.

My 30s were a bit more focussed. I tried to get rich. Unfortunately, everything I touched turned to shit, and I came out the end of it more broke than I’d been in my 20s.

So at the beginning of my 40s, I moved to France, and started taking pictures of sunsets.

I hate sunsets.

I’ve seen so many over the past eight years that when people say, ‘Oh look at that beautiful sunset!’

I say: ‘Oh yeah, another smudgy, orangey globe vanishing below another dull horizon.’

Like this one

So what happens now?

Do I get a career?

Or do I keep hustling. Living by the seat of my pants in the blind hope everything will turn out for the best.

I don't know.

A friend of mine, who works in The City, recently pointed out to me that I’ve done everything the wrong way round. Back-to-front.

While he was fighting for his career, his promotion, his marriage, his divorce, the custody of his kids, his sanity, I was sitting on a beach.

‘Now look at you,’ he laughed. ‘Attending training days at the Job Centre. Revenge is sweet!’

‘We get a free lunch,’ I declared enthusiastically.

He shook his head. ‘No such thing. It’s a built-in cost.’

So there you go: my friend is The Built-In Cost Guy. Everything is worked out, costed and planned in advance. No room for error.

When did life become so organized?

I thought life was a loose sheaf of papers that could be rewritten or rearranged at any given moment. A dot-to-dot you made up as you went along. Then rubbed out when you got bored. Like a giant Etch-A-Sketch. I didn’t know there was a manual.

‘I suppose you’ve organized your funeral as well,’ I asked him.

He looked at me shocked. ‘Of course — insurance takes care of it.’

Of course. Insurance takes care of everything. How stupid of me.

‘How about the weather. Does the insurance take care of that?’

‘I wish it did,’ he sighed. ‘It’ll almost certainly rain knowing my luck.’

I looked at my worn out friend, who I’d known since school, and in the same moment made my decision.

There would be no career for me.

Sunsets it is.

Thanks for reading and viewing sunsets. For more sunny pieces