"Up in the Air"
by J. Belinda Yandell
I was looking forward to seeing "Up in the Air." But somehow I missed one small pertinent detail: George Clooney's character fires people for a living.
Marketing actually promoted this film as a "high-flying comedy." Sure, it has a few chuckles here and there. So did “Sophie's Choice,” but i wouldn't characterize it as a light-hearted romance.
Director Jason Reitman made a brilliant choice to have the terminated played by people who look exactly like someone you might have passed on the way to the copy machine. The audience is forced to face them head-on in the terrible intimacy of the close-up.
Face after face fills the frame. Tears, anger, terror, disbelief, shock. Agonizing about their kids, their mortgages, their heating bills. Asking why, why, why?
I squirmed in my seat. My stomach twisted into an origami crane. I’ve lost four jobs in five years, and it was excruciating to see every horrifying emotion there on the screen.
Clooney's character tells them: "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's because they sat there that they were able to do it."
The first time he said it, I smirked and said, "Screw you." The second time, I would have thrown something heavy at the screen except that I knew I could no longer afford to replace either a television or an ashtray.
But when the guy in Detroit responded to that line with: "I'm 57 years old! Who's gonna hire me?" Well, that's when I finally lost it.
I am an expert in the stages of termination, most of which include hysterical sobbing. I was rather pleased that I skipped that stage on this, my fourth trip around the dead end of my brilliant career.
I thought I was just toughening up, realizing that tears are a waste of time, body fluids, Kleenex and decongestants. Tears never change anything. (Except that ticket for not wearing my seat belt; hysterical sobbing did get me out of that one, but that was a total fluke.)
But tonight the dam broke. A whole box of Kleenex sacrificed on the altar of self-pity, despair and abject terror.
Thank you very much, George Clooney. What did I ever do to you?
My friends have been generous in their sympathy. “You’re too smart and too talented to stay down for long! You’ll find another job!” Yada, yada, yada.
They mean well. But don’t even start with that “where God closes a door” crap. If God opened a window right now, I might just jump.
What frightens me most is my inability to come up with any plan of action. I look at job postings, at the classes online and on campus, financial aid information, etc. until my brain hurts. I had a minor panic attack reading how to apply for a Pell Grant. The words on the screen suddenly looked like Klingon.
I feel more and more like a possum in the path of on an oncoming SUV. All I can do is curl into a ball and play dead.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
I am a talented writer. But except for one fine little novel that hardly anybody read, no one wants my writing enough to pay me to do it. I fear the only way I'll ever get people to read my four unpublished novels will be to turn them into three-minute clips on You Tube. I will need a sock puppet.
Yes, I have more than twenty years as a graphic designer. The jobs are so few, and the competition so fierce, I’ve had exactly one interview in the past two years.
Become a teacher, everyone says. But I am afraid of investing the time, effort and money only to find out that I will hate teaching, and that I lack the patience to do it without resorting to violence, foul language or alcohol addiction.
I'm terrified that I'm too old to start all over again. I’m forty-eight. How old would I be by the time I could get my Masters? Could I manage a doctorate before senile dementia renders me incapable of remembering even my last name, let alone the fundamentals of pedagogy? Can I even learn anything anymore?
Yes, I am a moderately talented artist. The average artist makes $4,000 a year. I can’t live on that. Not indoors, anyway.
I am terrified of trying to open a business in this economy. I'm lousy with money. Payrolls, taxes, zoning, bookkeeping; oh, dear God, just shoot me.
If I were to choose a completely different "in-demand" career path, what should I choose? Court reporting? Medical coding? Paralegal? I'm an artist and writer in my heart and soul. There is nothing else I can even imagine that wouldn't suck me dry of my will to live.
A benefit from my last employer is a job “transition” service. A Briggs-Meyer personality test will tell me I am best suited for a career in art and design. Someone will suggest rewriting my resume. I'll get tips on how to interview successfully, such as: “Don’t wear clothing that exposes your tattoos.”
This “transition” service -- whose offices are located in the same building as the second job that fired me -- wants me to attend a two-day seminar. I’ve been beating the bushes for nearly four years now. Do they really think I haven't been trying? I'm not a moron. At least, I never thought so before.
That’s the worst: being fired changes how you see yourself. With each new rejection, I want to scream: “This is not who I am! How did I get here?”
Clooney's character may be right. "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's because they sat there that they were able to do it."
But I'm afraid. Deep-down-to-my-bones afraid. I can see nothing but the obstacles. I'm paralyzed by a lack of faith. I know I need to move beyond this, I just don't know how.
I was looking forward to seeing "Up in the Air." But somehow I missed one small pertinent detail: George Clooney's character fires people for a living.
Marketing actually promoted this film as a "high-flying comedy." Sure, it has a few chuckles here and there. So did “Sophie's Choice,” but i wouldn't characterize it as a light-hearted romance.
Director Jason Reitman made a brilliant choice to have the terminated played by people who look exactly like someone you might have passed on the way to the copy machine. The audience is forced to face them head-on in the terrible intimacy of the close-up.
Face after face fills the frame. Tears, anger, terror, disbelief, shock. Agonizing about their kids, their mortgages, their heating bills. Asking why, why, why?
I squirmed in my seat. My stomach twisted into an origami crane. I’ve lost four jobs in five years, and it was excruciating to see every horrifying emotion there on the screen.
Clooney's character tells them: "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's because they sat there that they were able to do it."
The first time he said it, I smirked and said, "Screw you." The second time, I would have thrown something heavy at the screen except that I knew I could no longer afford to replace either a television or an ashtray.
But when the guy in Detroit responded to that line with: "I'm 57 years old! Who's gonna hire me?" Well, that's when I finally lost it.
I am an expert in the stages of termination, most of which include hysterical sobbing. I was rather pleased that I skipped that stage on this, my fourth trip around the dead end of my brilliant career.
I thought I was just toughening up, realizing that tears are a waste of time, body fluids, Kleenex and decongestants. Tears never change anything. (Except that ticket for not wearing my seat belt; hysterical sobbing did get me out of that one, but that was a total fluke.)
But tonight the dam broke. A whole box of Kleenex sacrificed on the altar of self-pity, despair and abject terror.
Thank you very much, George Clooney. What did I ever do to you?
My friends have been generous in their sympathy. “You’re too smart and too talented to stay down for long! You’ll find another job!” Yada, yada, yada.
They mean well. But don’t even start with that “where God closes a door” crap. If God opened a window right now, I might just jump.
What frightens me most is my inability to come up with any plan of action. I look at job postings, at the classes online and on campus, financial aid information, etc. until my brain hurts. I had a minor panic attack reading how to apply for a Pell Grant. The words on the screen suddenly looked like Klingon.
I feel more and more like a possum in the path of on an oncoming SUV. All I can do is curl into a ball and play dead.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
I am a talented writer. But except for one fine little novel that hardly anybody read, no one wants my writing enough to pay me to do it. I fear the only way I'll ever get people to read my four unpublished novels will be to turn them into three-minute clips on You Tube. I will need a sock puppet.
Yes, I have more than twenty years as a graphic designer. The jobs are so few, and the competition so fierce, I’ve had exactly one interview in the past two years.
Become a teacher, everyone says. But I am afraid of investing the time, effort and money only to find out that I will hate teaching, and that I lack the patience to do it without resorting to violence, foul language or alcohol addiction.
I'm terrified that I'm too old to start all over again. I’m forty-eight. How old would I be by the time I could get my Masters? Could I manage a doctorate before senile dementia renders me incapable of remembering even my last name, let alone the fundamentals of pedagogy? Can I even learn anything anymore?
Yes, I am a moderately talented artist. The average artist makes $4,000 a year. I can’t live on that. Not indoors, anyway.
I am terrified of trying to open a business in this economy. I'm lousy with money. Payrolls, taxes, zoning, bookkeeping; oh, dear God, just shoot me.
If I were to choose a completely different "in-demand" career path, what should I choose? Court reporting? Medical coding? Paralegal? I'm an artist and writer in my heart and soul. There is nothing else I can even imagine that wouldn't suck me dry of my will to live.
A benefit from my last employer is a job “transition” service. A Briggs-Meyer personality test will tell me I am best suited for a career in art and design. Someone will suggest rewriting my resume. I'll get tips on how to interview successfully, such as: “Don’t wear clothing that exposes your tattoos.”
This “transition” service -- whose offices are located in the same building as the second job that fired me -- wants me to attend a two-day seminar. I’ve been beating the bushes for nearly four years now. Do they really think I haven't been trying? I'm not a moron. At least, I never thought so before.
That’s the worst: being fired changes how you see yourself. With each new rejection, I want to scream: “This is not who I am! How did I get here?”
Clooney's character may be right. "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's because they sat there that they were able to do it."
But I'm afraid. Deep-down-to-my-bones afraid. I can see nothing but the obstacles. I'm paralyzed by a lack of faith. I know I need to move beyond this, I just don't know how.
