Nine

March 18, 1995, I sat in my company's all-day new-hire orientation class. (Never mind that it was the fourth time I'd attended some version of this training — that's another story.) At the time, I blindly assumed I'd work for this company for life. Of course, I'd only been working steadily at any job for a combined total of three or so years, counting work at my university. I haven't even lived in the same place for nine years since my boyhood home.

In company terms, nine years isn't a "milestone." Next year I will supposedly get a pin, a plaque, and some form of party. (At five years, it was a breakfast; at fifteen, it's supposed to be a dinner, but I don't remember what ten gets you.) This, of course, presuming that recognition of service isn't on a budget chopping block by then.

In nine years, I've reported to about 17 different managers (some more than once), and held ten different jobs. Part of me doubts I want to see 15 years here, but then I remember saying that about 10 years, roughly 4 years ago. As I write this, I figure I'll probably at least hit ten years by default — there's something to be said about inertia and not moving around — and barring tragedy, chances are good I will still be in this chair a year from now.