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Chakri khuji, moha chinta

  • Published at 07:55 pm February 24th, 2019
Chintamoni

The CV anxiety syndrome

A few days ago, I met an old school friend of mine at a common relative’s holud, and when I enquired after her occupation, she stated that after 20 years of service, she was taking time out.

Right, well after 20 years of non service, I was planning to sit myself down to write my resume; and as another fellow non service BFF of mine very wryly noted, that, as many in our peer group were considering retirement options, we were thinking of entering the work force. Funny, and not. 

Actually, I do not mind work. Well, not that I have done much of it, but I would like to. The idea of regularly attending office as they say, and being in a routine appeals to me, as does the fringe benefits of being intellectually challenged, making new friends, and receiving a salary. 

Husband handouts, as generous as they were and are, have just not enhanced my sense of  self-worth, and neither have my daughters’ accolades. Not that I am not proud of them, but the pat in the back of being a good mother and a good wife (yes, there were lapses) is gratifying-ish, as it is always accompanied by a slight lingering feeling of emptiness. 

Two decades ago  I rather begrudgingly positioned myself as the part time support staff of my husband’s ‘biznez,’ (Banglish transliteration),  and though my dissatisfaction was not that obvious, I was very fortunate to have a group of highly supportive friends and relatives (you know who you are) who tried their level best to persuade  me into more attractive workplaces. Unsuccessfully.

And I am surprised they have remained my good friends, because as I gave up on myself, they did not give up on me. They knew me better than I knew myself I suppose, because here I am now with a renewed sense of enthusiasm about seeking part time employment outside of family business. BUT, what seems to be standing between me and office is that darn CV.

Ugh! The very mention of ‘do email me your particulars’ makes me freeze, then shiver with trepidation. No exaggeration. If you want to get back at me for anything you feel may have been offensive on Chintamoni, just sit me down with a blank sheet of paper and tell me to produce my curriculum vitae, then watch me wilt. Seriously. 

But why? Dunno. 

Maybe it is because a CV will force me to chronologically confront my past, and it will remind me of all the mistakes I made and when exactly I made them, and what little I can do to correct those mistakes right now. 

Or maybe it will force me to recollect certain periods of my life, that I have no wish to recall. 

Or maybe it is because I am so conditioned to self – deprecate, that it is a monumental psychological effort to project enhanced capabilities.  

Or maybe it is because I take a humorous perspective on everything, that I just cannot seriously promote my skills. 

Or maybe I see so many nuances in every interaction or event, that I find a CV does not really encapsulate my experiences. 

Or maybe a CV is just not detailed enough. 

Or maybe, Or maybe, Or maybe, … I can go on.  So much for work. 

Chintamoni grew up in Dhaka, where she will always belong, but never quite fit in. She is an enthusiastic traveller, a compulsive procrastinator, and a contumelious raconteur.