Money + Monsters = Career
You may be wondering if this image is of my boss, or perhaps any other banking professional, but you'd be wrong. No, this is an image of one of the most reviled and yet interesting men to have walked the earth - Henry Tudor, otherwise known as King Henry VIII. Now, the most obvious question that is likely top of mind is "what on earth does King Henry VIII have to do with what you do for a living?".
Let me explain.
I mentioned in my first post, Buckle Up Buttercup, that I hated my job. This sentiment is not new or even different amongst the masses of employed, and unemployed, people that walk the earth. I am quite common in this regard - "basic" one might even say (feel free to add on that secondary word to this label because it's accurate - I can be a bitch).
I go back and forth on whether to share the long or short version of HOW I became employed in an industry that is, by all accounts, today's version of the Tudor Court, and how much value that will bring so I'll err on the side of caution and give you the long version. It's more entertaining and frankly, more therapeutic for me, and since this is my story, I'll do what I want.
When I was 20, I worked as a bank teller. See, I had this picture in my head that being in banking, in any capacity, was a respectable way to live one's professional life, and I just knew it would be more lucrative than waiting tables. While working for the bank, here in the DC area (which bank is irrelevant as you'll come to find that I believe they are all the same), I was robbed, along w/ my colleagues, at gun point. When I say at gun point, I do not mean the gentleman - which is being kind mind you - tactfully stayed behind the teller safety glass, or subtly slid a handwritten note over asking for money. No, I mean, the aggressive type of robbery that did more to wake me up that Monday morning than any amount of coffee or Adderall could ever do.
The "gentlemanly thief", as I will refer to him here (since I most certainly do not know his name), followed one of my co-workers into the teller box and then proceeded to go down the line, brandishing his gun in our faces, and in my case, up against the left side temple of my head, giving us the necessary incentives needed to empty our drawers. I managed, even at that young age, to remain calm and follow procedure (I've always been a big fan of procedures you see - for just this reason - they could save your fucking life). I emptied my drawer without looking at the man, and as he crept down the line, I found the little "in case of emergency" button and without any hesitation pushed that little bugger. By now you're probably wondering how this got me to my mortgage career - well, it's coming so bear with me.
Of course, the authorities showed up, just in time to see - well, nothing. The gentlemanly thief had taken his leave with approximately $110,000, give or take, and thankfully, no one had been hurt (at least not physically). The FBI proceeded to follow their protocols and interviewed us one by one to assess the situation. In an attempt to weed out any untruths, we were spoken to by a number of agents, independently, together, in the western corner, in the eastern corner, on the couch in the main lobby - you see where I'm going with this, right? These little chats, while necessary, were starting to fray my already shot nerves and patience was waning, quickly.
Finally, around 4PM EST, I lost it. I explained, in my most grown up but pissed off demeanor that if they did not unlock the doors and let us leave, I was going to make sure they had an arrest for the day - ME! In hindsight, I doubt my slight meltdown had anything to do with it, but they did unlock the doors and we were allowed to go home. Once home, I reflected on the day and the numb calmness began to erode a bit. I was the victim of an armed robbery. The more I reflected on what a waste it would have been had I, or any of my co-workers, been harmed started to really eat at me. The sad fact is that it's not the possibility that I might have been killed that was angering me - it was that I would have died for $9/Hr.!
PARDON ME?
This is why I consider the mortgage industry to be like working in the court of Henry VIII. Satisfying the upper echelon is difficult to say the least, even when money is being raked hand over fist. You never know when your time is up, or even, at times, why you've been called to the executioner's block. Henry's wives and most mortgage operations professionals have one thing in common (and it's not money or status). "Off with her head" just has a different meaning when it's your head that has rolled time and again.
At least Anne Boleyn (who is a personal hero of mine BTW) and Katherine Howard had one luxury we in the mortgage industry cannot boast - they could only lose their head once!
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