Thanks to my tenth-grade English teacher, I know enough about existentialism to recognize where I am psychologically. For the last two days, I’ve been going back and forth between the phrase “existential crisis” and Mark Twain’s statement that “reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
Monday morning I returned to my office after a week’s vacation (much-deserved if I do say so myself). When I attempted to log into my computer, I kept receiving an error, so I phoned the help desk. The automated system asked me to enter my employee identification number, then informed me that the number I entered wasn’t recognized. I was then transferred to a representative who informed me that I was an ex-employee. After eleven years with my employer, I never imagined that this is how it would end. A person half a world a way, who’s never even met me, informing me that I am no longer employed in much the same manner that he might have advised me to reboot my computer.
After four hours of investigative work, I discovered that someone in human resources accidentally terminated me. I haven’t found out who that was specifically, as I believe the guilty party is being protected from the full force of my wrath. As it turns out, having an employee ID reinstated is a task on par in difficulty with raising the dead. Yes, it really does take a miracle.
In the meantime, anything sent to my work email address receives a response that “The e-mail account does not exist at the organization this message was sent to,” the only work system I have access to is our internal instant messenger, my health insurance is no longer valid, and last Friday’s paycheck has been withdrawn from my bank account. Yes, that was indeed the kicker. Human resources has assured me that this will all be corrected, but, in the meantime, I have to wonder if this is a sign.
