Ten Things I Want in My Next Job

This week marks two years since the great crunch at my last job, when about twenty percent of the staff — including my entire department — were sent packing. Sure, part of that was my “advanced age,” my computer science degree that predates the personal computer, and a market that suddenly flipped from employee-driven to employer-fed. But after surviving five rounds of downsizing over the last decade, I’ve just become more cautious about saying yes to jobs that smell even faintly like the same old disaster.

Honestly, I’m starting to think the kind of job I want doesn’t exist anymore. And if it does, it’s hidden in some secret “networking circle” and not waiting for me in a recruiter’s inbox with the subject line, “Perfect Fit for You!!!” (You’ve read that one, right?)

So, if recruiters can write their smug “Ten Things You Need to Do to Land the Perfect Job” posts on LinkedIn, I can write “Ten Things I Want in My Next Job.”

And who knows — maybe my dream boss is out there reading this right now (probably sitting next to an attractive, single weather girl who loves Star Trek, speaks with a Russian accent, and desperately needs to get married to solidify her citizenship), sipping a cortado and scrolling job boards. Hi, boss. Call me.

1. Don’t make me retype my résumé into your online form.
It’s the 21st century. I have three versions of my résumé on my phone and professional profiles plastered across every job board. If your HR software can’t parse a Word document or pull data via API, your company isn’t “digital-first.” It’s “digital-last.” If you need me to re-enter every job I’ve had since the Clinton administration, we’re done before we’ve begun.

2. Don’t ask for my desired salary before we’ve even spoken.
If that’s on the first page of your application, I know exactly what kind of game you’re playing — “find the cheapest qualified person.” My answer depends on your benefits, your PTO, and how many of your C-suite are named Chad. Besides, I was a business analyst for thirteen years. Negotiation is my love language. I can spreadsheet my worth all day.

3. Sell me on your company vision.
If someone asks me what my company does, I’d like to say something more inspiring than “insurance,” “mortgages,” or “making three rich guys richer.” I don’t need to save the whales, but I’d at least like to make someone happy or do something of worth for my community. One of my favorite jobs ever can be summed up as: “we make people smile.” I can get behind that.

4. Provide free parking — nearby.
I’m done freezing, roasting, or getting soaked before I even clock in. I shouldn’t have to pack a survival kit or a shiv just to make it from my car to my desk. I don’t need valet service, but I should be able to see the building from where I park.

5. Put a ring on it.
Here’s the career-killer: contracting. I’m finished with “likely extensions” and “possible conversions” dangled like carrots in front of me every time I’m asked to do something outside of my contracted job — otherwise known as, “You hired a business analyst, I’m not going to be a discount full-stack developer as well unless there’s a 401K involved.” I’ve changed discount insurance plans more often than I’ve changed passwords. I’m done being the disposable “temporary resource” while doing stuff that wasn’t in the job description. Hire me. Commit. Give me benefits so I can stop bubble-wrapping my kid during each 3-month grace period waiting for new benefits to kick in.

6. Let me learn something new.
My résumé hasn’t changed in thirteen years. Every line reads: “liaison between business and IT,” “captured requirements,” “managed complex projects,” blah blah blah. If I’m doing the same thing again, at least make it interesting. “Built a dashboard” doesn’t set my soul on fire. Help me build my story.

7. No damned ping-pong tables.
If your office culture depends on indoor basketball or arcade machines, maybe open a Chuck E. Cheese franchise instead. I’ve done the “ping-pong meeting.” It’s not cute. When you’re late on a deliverable, maybe it’s because you spent Thursday afternoon defending your Galaga high score instead of finishing your sprint. Spoiler: you didn’t beat Finance; they were just playing co-op.

8. Let me control my environment.
The “agile seating” fad works maybe a quarter of the time. The rest of the time, it’s open-office hell. I can’t think while three teams argue about Jira tickets two feet away. I don’t want to overhear someone’s personal drama or listen to conference calls I’m not supposed to be on or have clearance to know about. I do my best work with quiet, Diet Coke, and a bit of bebop. You want productivity? Give me a door that closes (or at least a bit of privacy) and a thermostat I can reach.

9. Don’t micromanage my time.
I love when multinational corporations that write off millions as rounding errors get upset that a task estimated for forty hours took me forty-two, not counting the eight I did at home. Productivity isn’t measured in hours, it’s measured in results. If you can’t tell the difference, maybe you should be the one with the timesheet that breaks your life into ten-minute billable segments charged to a cost center (which, ironically, takes at least two of those ten-minute segments to fill out).

10. Pretend to care what your employees think.
You can usually spot a bad boss in the interview. Ask a few thoughtful questions and watch their face twitch when you offer a suggestion. My favorite example: a 20-something manager once cut me off mid-sentence with, “Yes, that’s all well and good, but in my experience…”

Listen, kid, if you do the math, I was literally debugging COBOL when you were filling a diaper. When exactly did this “experience” occur — last week? Even if you think my idea’s garbage, let me finish the sentence before you flex your middle-management ego. That’s just basic manners.

So there you go. Ten demands. Maybe it makes me sound like a cranky old fart. Maybe it’s why most recruiters in this city ghost me faster than a bad Tinder date, but life’s too short to settle for misery just because the coffee’s free and the swag’s polyester.

If anyone knows of a place that ticks even half these boxes, I’ll happily take a pay cut — or offer a finder’s fee. Just prove that jobs like this still exist.

And hey, boss, if you’re reading this in that coffee shop, next to that weather girl? Order me a sandwich. I can be there in five.