After we explained everything our readers need to know about the economy last month, we’ve been inundated with new questions about where we’re headed, especially when it comes to jobs. No surprise there, since everyone who tracks this stuff is reporting a decline in the job market that resembles Wile E. Coyote’s path after he finally looks down.

It’s gotten so bad that even the fake job sites have given up. In July, our inbox was overflowing with “offers” of incredible, high-paying positions. Now, the scammers know nobody is going to believe there are jobs available, so they’ve moved on to GOLD GOLD GOLD GOLD.

So, what’s the straight-skinny, upfront lowdown on the job market today? Glad you asked:

How will I know if my job might be in jeopardy?

You should be just a bit concerned if your job involves customer service, computers, speaking, writing, or, worst of all, journalism. If your job involves putting coffee into a paper cup, driving a bachelorette-party bus, or delivering pizza on a bicycle, you’re safe, at least for now.

My boss says my job is safe. Should I believe her?

How old are you? Really, the answer to that question is always NO. And not just NO. Emphatic NO. Even as you read these words, your boss is working feverishly to downsize your department and hand over your duties to a chatbot. She’s under pressure to keep her job, so canning you seems like a good idea. Of course, she hasn’t figured out that no managers are needed to oversee a chatbot, but that’s her problem and you’ll be long gone when she gets whacked.

Will there be any warning signs that cutbacks are imminent?

Yes, so it’s important to be pay attention to the subtle clues. For instance, if your HR department comes up with new team-building exercises that involve bungee jumping, escape rooms, or trust falls, be very afraid. If the company announces that this year’s Christmas party will be held at Nakatomi Plaza, that’s a red flag, too. And be especially concerned if you’re told to meet your team in a Home Depot parking lot.

Home Depot parking lot? But I’m a citizen.

How old are you? You don’t have to get deported. You’ll only be held for a few days until they let you go, but you’ll have been fired for unexcused absences by then. The CEO can say there have been no layoffs, and there’s no unemployment compensation when you’re fired for cause. Win-win, just not for you.

Maybe I should look for a new job that’s more secure.

That’s an excellent idea, although it’s hard to find great jobs at solid companies. Putting coffee into a paper cup, driving a bachelorette-party bus, and delivering pizza on a bicycle don’t pay very well, so you’ll want to look for a position with better pay and benefits. Just be sure to find a company that doesn’t import or export, has no government contracts, isn’t involved in higher education, and has no AI initiatives in place. Or planned.

You’re not sounding very optimistic about this.

Not true. In fact, this is actually the upside view. You don’t want to know what the pessimistic take is here.

Yikes. Is there any hope at all?

Absolutely. Now that we finally have loyalists generating the country’s job numbers, we can rest assured that employment is going to soar to the greatest, most powerful, incredible levels ever in history, or even beyond history, or more than that. Of course, it goes without saying that your results may vary.

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If not for the divorce, today would have been our 50th anniversary.

I’ll be out of town for a few days to get away from the reminders, but it’s a fool’s errand. I’ll be carrying the memories and the baggage, as always. I'll decompress, eventually, but it's a long journey ahead.

This is terra incognita, a place I never thought I’d visit. We came here slowly, with setbacks and progress, until we arrived at the least-bad option for our specific situation. There are no villains and not a ton of drama, just the steady abrasion that wears away at the foundation until it fails.

A few people thought it helpful to congratulate me on this milestone and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell is wrong with them. A few were offended that they weren't made privy to our challenges along the way. Mostly, though, people have sidestepped the topic and that’s probably for the best. My dad said nobody knows what happens behind closed doors, and he was right. It’s nobody’s business but ours, and there isn’t much to talk about, anyway.

The past is past and we cannot change any of it. It isn’t dead, because it guides us, but it is immutable, incapable of change. We would like to think we would be in a better place if we could have avoided this setback or not suffered that hardship, but that's a foolish notion. We are who we are as a result of--not in spite of--each individual step along the way. Regret is inevitable, because we are human, but it is a wasted effort on a one-way journey.

Looking back, I have all kinds of scars and sadness, but I also see all sorts of crises avoided and bullets dodged. Clearly, we didn’t dodge all of them, but nobody comes through this journey unscathed.

Today, that will need to be enough.
 
 
 

She got off the treadmill, started walking toward me, looked me in the eye, and said, “Hi, how are you doing?”

I didn’t think I knew her, although I’m the guy who had to be introduced to his own relatives at his wedding, so you can never count on me to remember anyone. The important thing was that she remembered me, so I responded that I was doing quite well. Then, I began asking her about her day as she walked past me and out the door.

Damned ear buds.

If there’s ever going to be justice in this world, everyone using earbuds should be required to have a flashing “On Air” sign on their foreheads, letting the rest of us know they’re broadcasting and don’t want us talking to them.

I’ve actually gotten better at it over the years, avoiding the trap of responding to people as if anyone was willing to be seen speaking with me in public. I should know better, of course, but I’m so excited to be acknowledged that I jump into the conversation immediately. Almost invariably, I have not been invited.

I fell for it on this particular day, though, because the woman did something almost nobody ever does. She made eye contact. Yes! Hard to believe, but she actually looked me in the eyes as if she was acknowledging that we were both, what’s that word…people.

Eye contact is absolutely a lost art form. Nobody ever looks at you while crossing the street in front of your car or riding with you on the elevator or, well, pretty much ever. It’s as if everyone got the message that looking into someone’s eyes is worse than staring at a solar eclipse.

Believe it or not, kids, there was actually a time when I’d get called out for looking at my computer screen when someone came into the office for a conversation. That sounds quaint now, as if we aren’t all looking at our phones while saying, “Yes, I’m listening,” to the person who left the room ten minutes ago. 

Actually looking at someone while talking to them adds a degree of intimacy to a conversation, almost as if we were two real human beings communicating with each other in a three-dimensional world.  Crazy, I know, but all the great ideas seem crazy at first.

The pendulum swings, though, and eye contact is bound to come back, just like Hula Hoops and Oregon Trail and Nehru jackets. One of these days, some influencer or rock star will start promoting the healing powers of eye contact and we’ll all be staring at each other like it’s 1999.

Until then, could all of you buy some “On Air” tiaras to wear while you’re using your ear buds? It will save me a ton of embarrassment and that’s a small price for the rest of the world to pay on my behalf.

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Whenever I’m feeling low, abandoned, worthless, weeping at the realization that nobody cares if I live or die, somebody insists that I download their app and my spirit soars.

As far as I can tell, and this is just a rough estimate, I am responsible for $1,289,412.36 in annual commerce and 426 jobs, just based on all the data points I possess. It used to be 837 jobs, but AI eliminated almost half of them.  Without me, the entire economies of seven states would collapse and the multiplier effect would lead to a global depression.

Hear me roar.

This isn’t hyperbole on my part. First, I’ve crunched the numbers several times and the answer is always the same. Second, I don’t know what hyperbole means. It’s just a big word to make me sound smarter. But I don’t need to be that smart to know I’m an exquisite prize to be marketed to the highest bidder.

Every time I search, more than 2,000 companies pay for the right to show me their wares. They don’t pay much per exposure, I know, but those mils and micro-mils add up. By the end of every day, I’ve completed 20-30 searches for various items and the entire data industry is thinking of retiring their Consumer of the Year Award after I’ve won it so many times.

Nobody is making a profit from my data, since they’re paying about $347 in ad costs for every buck I end up spending, but nobody said it would be easy to win my favors. It’s a bit like people playing the lottery every week, blowing $7 million for every $1 million in prize money. Except, this is the Michael Lottery and I’m the prize.

I don’t even need to do a search anymore to keep the global economy running. All I have to do is download an app onto my phone and whoever runs the app will be trafficking in Cryptomichael non-stop. I have 73 apps on my phone and I only use about a dozen of them, but the rest serve an important role in the vast economy of Michaelbits.

If I was being traded like the incredible financial investment I am, my market value would be north of $24 million, or four Lee Majors. I’m so valuable because I’m so multifaceted, a diamond among pearls. The data merchants can make gazillions from my info because I am just that fascinating:

• “Look, he was awake and on his computer at 11:23 p.m.”
• “He’s most likely to look for Cheetos and beef jerky simultaneously.”
• “He’s willing to spend an extra 2.3 cents for two-day delivery.”
• “He’s loves BOGOs for toe fungus gel.”

Really, it just never ends. (Much like this post.)

Of course, like any smart consumer, I always ask the apps and all the websites I visit not to track me, but we all know better and we all enjoy a good laugh. And, with all the bots tracking me, I can never really go missing.

I’m just like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, except I’m saving Mr. Potter’s data-mining business instead of real people. Also, unlike George, none of the people whose jobs I saved are aware that I am their hero. I know, though, and now you do, too, so that will have to be enough.

I am somebody. I am valuable. I am desired. Yes, it’s only for my data, but I’ll take the win.
 
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I’ve got a seriously big week ahead, beginning with a day of mourning on Monday as the sun crosses the equator (really, it’s vice versa) and the darkness grows to nearly 15 hours at the winter solstice. I swore to myself that I’d get more enjoyment out of summer, which I did, and that I’d spend more time on the bike, which I did, but summer in Chicago is never long enough and our blue marble follows its own path, not mine.

That’s not the biggest challenge for this week, though, as Rosh Hashanah begins later the same day and I confront the greatest illusion in my life. The Jewish High Holidays are always a period of meaningful introspection for me and I’ve been focusing lately on the false belief I share with almost every other person on this planet.

Control.

Somehow, despite all the evidence life throws at us, we have a (Oxymoron Alert!!) seriously goofy habit of thinking we have some control over our existence. It would be a mistake to say we have no control at all, of course. We get to choose whether we have sausage or mushrooms, or both, on our pizza. We get to choose between boxers and briefs. We even get the pick the excuse we’ll use when we tell mom we can’t help her clean out the garage next weekend.

That’s small potatoes, though. When it comes to the big things in life, we reach our limits very, very quickly. We don’t control our health or our smarts or our height or who will hire us or whether our subway train will stay on the rails. We can’t make our rideshare show up on time or ensure that our pizza arrives with the toppings we ordered.

A major message of the Days of Awe, the period between the start of Rosh Hashanah and the end of the Day of Atonement on Yom Kippur, is that we have no control. At this time last year, we had no idea whether we would live to see today and, as Yom Kippur comes to a close, we will have no idea whether we will make it to the next Days of Awe.

The whole process is belittling and liberating at the same time. We spend our lives obsessing over things we cannot control, getting angry or stressed or impatient with people or events that we cannot even influence. Sometimes, we feel responsible when things go wrong, as if we really could have made the difference, or take unearned credit for successes we didn’t really create. Freed from that conceit, we can focus on the only thing we do control, which is our own actions.

I agree with Louis Pasteur that chance favors the prepared mind, and I’m a big fan of planning ahead, but that doesn’t mean I think I can control much of anything. Almost the opposite. Preparation makes it easier to make good decisions when, inevitably, things don’t go as planned. If I had more control, I wouldn’t need as much planning, but I don’t, so I do.

After the High Holidays, I’ll keep on making plans, if only to give God a good laugh. I’ll also try to keep both my stress and hubris in check by remembering control is an illusion.
 
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So, when you meet someone who has been sick for a long time, should you ask them how they’re feeling?

At first, this looks like a no-brainer. Of course, you do. What kind of lowlife, inconsiderate, uncaring, ice-in-the-veins mass of worthless protoplasm wouldn’t ask a sick person about their health?

This one.

Yeah, if they just came home from the hospital or they just had some procedure done, I’ll ask about it right away. But, if they have a chronic condition, it’s not going to be one of my top five conversation starters. I’ll probably get to it eventually, but I’ll do them the favor of ignoring the issue as much as I can. If it's fatal, I'll make an effort not to talk about it at all.

Maybe, people who are chronically ill get tired of the questions. Maybe, they’re sick of being sick and want to change the subject. Maybe they want to be seen as more than their malady. Maybe, they want someone to ask them if they’ve been any place interesting lately or whether they saw that new show on Hulu or if they think the Bears will get into the Super Bowl. (Bears/Super Bowl questions are always good for a laugh.) Just maybe, they’re tired of talking about their illness and they’re damned tired of having it define them.

I’ve actually asked a couple of chronically ill people who say they hate being treated like avatars of disease, and I understand the conflict in their lives. Any chronic condition is what we have, but it isn’t who we are. The topic will come up If the conversation goes on long enough, but we don’t have to dive into it like it’s our secret handshake.

I’ve seen people wearing T-shirts that say things like, “Ask me about my grandchild,” or “Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,” but I’ve never seen one that says, “Ask me about my goiter.” Maybe there’s a reason for that.

We all want to be seen as complete human beings who have layers, just like ogres. We want to talk about the things that interest us and excite us and trigger our pheromones. No matter what challenges we’re dealing with, we have days when we just want to forget about it and have a normal life.

The funny thing is, the standard opener for pretty much all of us is, “How are you doing?” Almost always, that’s a vague question that can simply trigger whatever is top of mind. But when we know a person isn’t doing well at all, another opening might be preferable. IMO.
 
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