North Star Writers Group

I’m in my mid-30s, which is a great age to be at work. I’ve been in the work force for 14 years, and I’ve seen and done a lot. But there are still a ton of people who’ve seen more, done more, know more and can serve as mentors to me.

It’s really my work-time primetime.

Some of those mentors are great. Their advice opens my eyes and brings me out of my comfort zone. Others have great opportunities to serve as mentors, but blow them every time with harsh criticism that, while I have a thick skin, does nothing but sting and isn’t productive.

Then, there is my favorite category of mentor. The parental type. My own parents don’t live in the same state as I do, and so I don’t talk to them every day. Just last week, as I was kind of missing them, one of my 50-something coworkers said to me, in retort to a minor complaint I’d made, “Well, that’s life in the Big City.”

My response? I cracked up laughing! Through my giggles, I just had to tell him that I hadn’t heard that phrase since I was 17 years old, most likely asking for, and most certainly being denied, money from my Mom.

His comment made me feel like a 17-year-old again, but in a good way. For one thing, I knew he was right. At 17, I never could have admitted that. But now, it comes more easily to say that someone else has called you out on a less-than-legitimate request that things be 100 percent perfect at all times.

Another mentor of mine helped see me through a mistake that was made and had to be corrected quickly. I was upset about the mistake, and told her so via e-mail. She responded with, “Don’t stress over this. It’s not good for you.”

Wow. Had my Mom entered her head? Once again, she was right, and once again, I missed my Mom, who would – and still does – say that to me about what she considers the “little things.” Like a less-than-stellar test grade back then, or my first driver’s license exam. My Mom knew that I’d have plenty of chances in life to make up for these little moments. And my mentor at work did, too.

Of course, parents truly do have superpowers. My Mom had this uncanny ability to spot things that were – until the point she walked in the room – completely hidden from my own eyesight. A matching sock. A schoolbook. A dog leash. She’d walk into the room, and the item I’d just spent 30 minutes searching for would somehow float to the top of the pile, into the single most obvious place where I myself had looked no less than 10 times.

Mentors at work have superpowers, too. I’ve been at the same company for just under two years, and haven’t quite honed mine. My boss is a great example of this. He knows exactly when to let something go, be it a nasty comment or a statement of blame, versus exactly when to enter the fray. If he wasn’t there to coach me on the same, I could easily see myself ignoring the important in favor of running into all the burning homes, trying to save those who’d already escaped.

And then there are the times when you’re perpetually mad at your parents. Like the whole year I was 16. I wanted freedom. My parents wanted me grounded. I was sick of high school. They wanted a stellar student. I wanted a boyfriend. They wanted me locked up in the attic, or if that wasn’t possible, at least working somewhere where I’d never meet any boys, like sweeping up hair at the salon.

Some mentors are like that, too. You want to own the project and have a chance to prove yourself. They can’t relinquish control. You want to skip pointless meetings in favor of getting your work done, and in my case, getting home to your young children. They want you to work 14-hour days, for no good reason other than because they do.

No matter the mentor, I do my best to learn a little something from each and every one of them. After all, who wouldn’t want to feel 17 years old again, if only for a few minutes each day?

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