A rep in our region got fired yesterday.

This was the news as the ladies of our region all sat down together for lunch. Our mouths gaped open in surprise.

There was a chorus of “Oh no!”s and “WHAT?”s and blank looks. The subject in question had joined us for lunch anyway, and proceeded to regale us with the details.

Apparently, being fired from our firm is a relatively bloodless deal. You receive a call from someone a few steps up in your food chain (who would never really call you otherwise) and it takes about 30 seconds to be informed that it isn’t working out and that you should vacate your office by the end of the day.

Don’t bother turning to your computer once you replace the handset on the phone. You’ve been terminated in more ways than one.

What warning was received? What was so bad? This is what we were all wondering as we listened to her story and applied it, as women often do, to ourselves. Holy shit. Will I be next?

(For all the outer confidence and cockiness salespeople carry, they don’t like their jobs threatened, and they are never very confident of their production, even if they are in the Top Producers group every year.)

We nearly huddled together as we left the restaurant. Thanking God silently for our own jobs, while outwardly continuing to be furious with The Man for the decision they made. Was it politics, we wondered? Did Those Who Reign on High want this office for someone else? Did Someone not like her? Are they just getting tired of hiring additional women as brokers, so they thought they’d trim the numbers a bit?

All the while, inside, we’re saying “thank you God that it wasn’t me.”

The stomach ache from lunch nagged all day long.

Fragile,

michelle