I’ve had a bad few weeks of late. I took a
much needed break after going back to school these last three years, but had
assumed I would have found at least some freelance work by now. No such luck,
but then I’ve never been great at networking or selling myself. I thought I
found the perfect part-time job, but they thought otherwise. Lately I’ve only
been seeing jobs I either don’t want or couldn’t even begin to deal with
(reading a job ad that says the company is looking for “a rock star” makes my
head hurt).
The depression of the summer ending without
me having really done anything hit hard near Labor Day. That was when I took a
very stupid and nasty tumble on a stone courtyard. Luckily nothing broke, but
my knees are still sore and bruised and my left ankle almost twisted, and it
has not quite unwound yet.
Then to add insult to injury (quite
literally) – the Kavanaugh hearings began. I’ve already been dreading every day
since Trump/Pence took office, wondering if this would be the day my rights
(and other women’s rights) would start to be whittled away. Men haven’t
experienced this, ever. If Kavanaugh is appointed to the Court, then doom
really will be coming sooner than later.
It’s this mindset and physicality that
brought me to my implosion this week. I bring up the earlier issues because
it’s never just one thing that sets you off, but a whole host of them.
I was trying to do a conversion with my
retirement account. Last year we started this process, but due to being
obscenely late in the year trying to do this, and me being out of town, I could
only skim the very lengthy documents on my cell phone before crossing my
fingers and signing. It all went okay and I do trust my long-time advisor, but
trust has limits, especially in the times we are living in. I didn’t want to go
through that situation again, so began the process earlier.
At first I thought his assistant had just
gotten things confused, as amongst all the insane legalese in a combined 68-page
document it appeared to be a plan for my husband rather than me. It said it was
presented to him, not me. Only his account that he just last year moved over
from another firm was showing. The new converted accounted just gave the lump
total, not the lower amount that needed to be moved this year to combine with
last year’s funds. The document also had my husband’s investor profile, not
mine.
I let the assistant know, sending screen
shots, but there still seemed to be confusion on her part (or so I thought). I
suggested to the advisor that perhaps I should come in to the office instead of
dealing with emails, thinking any errors could be fixed then and there. He
agreed, but what came across from two texts just as I was entering the showing
of the film The Bookshop was that
this really wasn’t an “error.”
Even though I’ve been a client longer and
have a larger account than my husband, his recent account was deemed an
Advisory Account (I still have not received an explanation for this), which
gives it status that usurps mine. The excuse given was that their computer
system only allows one name/profile for paperwork, and my husband’s account
Trumps mine (pun angrily intended).
Basically I was told it was fine to sign
these documents even though they’re not really correct, and I guess once again
hope for the best. As I let this sink in as I watched the movie, I couldn’t
quite figure out if my rising anger was for the injustice toward the heroine of
the film or for the injustice for my own minor situation. While my life is by
no means Crazy Rich Asian-like, I do
know other people are experiencing far greater troubles. But that doesn’t mean
that insane patriarchal systems should get away with this crap.
By the time I got home, I was feeling numb,
even wondering if I’d caught whatever virus had caused my husband to be home
sick the last two days. After trying to distract myself, I realized I either
needed to scream or go to bed, so bed it was.
Guess what? I didn’t sign the documents. The
next morning I let the advisor know exactly how upset I was and why. His
assistant sent a new set of documents, this time stating that it was presented
to me (which it had been!!!!), but nothing else changed. In fact she still
believed that the investor profile was mine. My husband may be very aggressive
with his finances; I am not, although I am thinking very aggressive thoughts
right now. I even tweeted to the national company yesterday morning. After all,
if my Netflix account can have multiple profiles why can’t this large financial
firm offer them?
I think only women will understand this blog
post. Men can easily claim that paper work doesn’t matter or that no one looks
at it. Women know that’s not true. I’ve seen people get stuck on wrong career
trajectories because they accepted a lower-level job title. Once you’re
earmarked as one thing, it’s hard to get people to look at you differently.
Believe me, I know.
Words matter. Contracts matter, and
especially incorrectly worded ones due to a faulty patriarchal financial
services company’s limit to household profiles (I'm not buying that this has nothing to do with gender).
If I would have known I’d be, in essence, made
to feel erased by having my husband bring a past IRA over to the financial
services firm I use, I would have never recommended it. I won’t make that
mistake again.
I’m not sure how this will play out. I felt
so depleted after my emails and tweet that I couldn’t be bothered to check my
emails or texts again yesterday. I tried doing yoga, but with the sore knees and
ankle it didn’t go so well. Instead I ended up listening to podcasts and
attempting to eat my weight in roasted garlic potatoes.
I hope my financial advisor is able to get things properly adjusted, so that I’ll be able to sign correct documents instead of
beginning a search for a new investment firm.
Ladies – be diligent. Don’t believe men,
even those you trust. Verify, verify, verify. It’s a dangerous world we live in,
and getting worse every day. If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no matter how
hysterical men paint us, no one else will. And then it won’t matter.