:: Ethnologic ::

Time is Charon the Boatman ferrying one existence to the next, and as I swiped my access card with unthinking practice this morning, I realised how I had crossed the threshold between my clueless student perseity into a white-collared dimension through these very doors three years ago. I was so young it was almost pitiful, and I had the same shiftless faith that cloaks the Dead drifting to Hades, even if the death of my student life was nothing to cry over.

The only difference between then and now―other than slightly smarter looking clothes and wiser choices in shoes―is that my energy has been displaced with experience. The more I gain of the latter, it seems, the less I have of the former. I am a waned moon sometimes; has my corporate blood run thin?

When the glass doors of Audi were first opened to me, I had stumbled through them with the fresh-faced excitement of a young soldier. I was barely twenty, freshly-minted from school, and wide-eyed with the thirst to learn. I didn't know what my battles were, exactly, but I saw my battle field, I trusted my commanders in chief, and I adored the little badges of corporate warriorhood―my first personal namecard, my first working lunch, my first big presentation, my first overseas conference.

I sucked up the routines of a so-called professional like a sponge―upon Cem's undying advice, of course: 'Jean Tan, be a sponge!'―and I became surrogate mother to projects and people, perspectives and prerogatives. I struggled with the passing of my childhood ambitions for a while―I splattered virtual blood in email after email to René about the dissonance I had in working out financial calculations and marketing strategies when my calling was in print and publishing, rather than cars and capitalism.

But the thrill of novelty was hard to ignore. I was working. I was out in the world, it seemed―and it was all so impelling. I was a baby taking my first steps in the corporate world, and although I wobbled unsteadily in my new universe, I was giddy with rapture. My financial independence was only the icing. I had my corporate cake―a terrible metaphor, I know―and I ate it with greedy relish.

And the people. I had Cem, who was a terrific mentor, and I had a fantastic team of passionate professionals, who despite their differences in cultural backgrounds and functional expertise, were crazy about the brand. I was taught and praised, and I taught and praised. I made mistakes, I got into scrapes, I missed deadlines and I fumbled in presentations. But I also laughed with like-minded colleagues, and we shared lunches and drinks and the same desire to elevate our brand to the level we felt it deserved―even though we didn't benefit tangibly from it.

My confidence grew. As did my lethargy.

It all went downhill after Cem's sudden departure. He brought a rare humility to the team, and we all indirectly or directly suffered from the void he left. I was glad when D came onboard―he was firm, but kind, and he had the vision, but also the compassion. But his swift promotion was one of the many knee-jerk decisions of a global structural overhaul; even as I type this the swirls of change are curling like venin around the office.

I feel it. We all feel it.

Or maybe it's just me. This―this―is no longer quenching my voracious thirst for new experiences. I am becoming pallid, you see. I don't come alive anymore, and people have noticed.

'Next stop wonderland―to work with me?' asked DK, raising a half serious eyebrow at me. He was part of the original team―DK had been responsible for some of the most challenging countries of our region, and he's also responsible for some of the best advice anyone could have given a 20-year-old greenhorn a few years ago.

I sipped my iced coffee in contemplative agreement. 'Doesn't make sense does it? You flash an ad there and you get hordes of locals wanting to work for an MNC. Can you justify me?'

DK grinned. 'I'll call you,' he said mysteriously, his voice laced with the lilt of candid power.

I shook his hand but shrugged my shoulders. In this world, where change is the greenback of businesses, I believe in little and hope for even less. I'm a mistress for my business, and my business, unfortunately, is a master of change.

You see, in a time where love affairs are like business transactions and business transactions are my love affairs, I embrace change as I would a lover. And as with all relationships in this eclectic, erratic time of ours, I can only hope that my head wouldn't be turned, and my heart wouldn't be dashed by the fickle, careless offers by lovers and employers alike.