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The Stoic philosopher Epictetus once remarked: "It's not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters."
This aphoristic gem, simple though it may be, has guided me through many an ordeal. Recently, I again had to draw on its wisdom.
It's been almost two years since I retired, and I'm still acclimatizing to some of the challenges that can come with "living a life of leisure."
Since stepping away from the bustle of the workaday world, I have on numerous occasions been bored out of my skull. It's fair to say I've rediscovered the importance of having some structure in one's life, even if only a little. Managing on a significantly reduced income, while facing an ever-increasing cost of living, has also yielded some nifty surprises. Unscheduled medical, home and car expenses, together with this year's jaw-dropping tax bill, have rendered my nest egg increasingly vulnerable.
So, when I learned that Statistics Canada would be hiring a bunch of folks to help with the return of the long-form census this spring, I thought that getting involved in a new project, even if only temporarily, and picking up a few extra bucks might be just what the doctor ordered.
I fired off my application and subsequently received a call from Statscan inviting me in to write a screening test. The nice woman on the phone suggested I go to their website ahead of time and check out a sample test "to get a feel for things," which I did.
The test, designed to assess math, spatial and problem-solving skills, seemed rather easy. Consequently, I didn't expect to have any difficulty with the real thing.
A few days later, I cruised down to the local employment centre where the test was being held. A small group of us, men and women from a range of ages and backgrounds, filed into a little room where we took our seats and readied ourselves.
After the obligatory identification check and instructions, the supervisor told us to begin. There were 15 multiple-choice questions, which we had 35 minutes to complete.
My confidence dissolved almost immediately. Getting the gist of the very first question, before even attempting to answer it, ate up precious minutes. In the online preview, I'd easily comprehended a diagram depicting housing subdivisions – but what confronted me now looked more like hieroglyphics.
At the 15-minute mark, I had answered only four questions, and they were getting progressively harder. I wondered what on earth was wrong with me. Had I suffered some kind of cerebral event in the night that robbed me of my processing and computing ability? Was I being unduly distracted by the young man beside me who continuously tapped his foot while noisily flipping back and forth the pages of his booklet?
The muscles in my neck and shoulders grew unmercifully taut and my saliva evaporated, making it difficult to swallow. Granted, I’ve never been one to excel under pressure, but I hadn’t reacted this badly to a test since falling hopelessly behind during a Grade 2 dictation.
By the time the supervisor chimed “five minutes left” my mental faculties had all but shut down. I’d answered only eight of the 15 questions, and three of those were guesses. Not only did I not answer the remaining questions, I didn’t even get to read them.
When time was up, I slowly placed my test materials in the envelope provided, dropped it on the supervisor’s desk and slunk out of the room. I avoided making eye contact as I retreated to the parking lot and the privacy of my car. I drove home dazed and demoralized.
I ruminated over my dismal performance for the next couple of hours, searching for a plausible explanation. Were there too many questions, given the time allotted? Could it be that I’m just not in test shape? Or, was the test simply beyond my ability?
I called a buddy because I needed to vent and get another perspective. His solicitousness helped quell my agitation. Once I hung up, however, whispers of self-reproach began anew.
Later that evening, I shared what had happened with another good friend. Again I felt supported, yet my negative self-talk persisted.
A few days later, while reviewing the whole upsetting experience one more time with my sister over coffee, I finally began to calm down and regain my view of the bigger picture.
Doing as poorly as I had done on a test I thought I would ace, in service of securing a temporary, part-time position requiring fairly basic skills and paying only a few dollars north of minimum wage, was certainly a blow to my ego. But in the grand scheme of things did it really matter? No.
Although it took some time, both my perspective and equilibrium returned once I remembered that it’s not my failures or disappointments in life, but how I react to them that really matters.
It’s been several weeks since I flunked the test, and already it’s beginning to feel like ancient history.
I think Epictetus would be proud.
Gary Westover lives in St. Catharines, Ont.