I scan my ID, and the turnstiles part. The screen flashes a number that corresponds to an elevator waiting to whisk me up into the sky. I walk steadily down an open, high-ceilinged corridor, gaze forward, yo-yoing my badge on a snapback string. A maintenance guy vacuums a patch of carpet. Twenty-somethings speed walk past balancing Starbucks cups and iPhones. I turn right at the last bank and make my way to the assigned elevator. As I arrive, the doors shut in my face.

Welcome to another day of work, kind sir.

Why do the elevators hate me? Why do they taunt me? Why do they toy with me so? Maybe if the elevators just got to know me, they’d welcome me into their upward-bound metal box without the daily slight and deliver me to my cubicle on a mid-level floor.

After all, I’m a decent person and a productive employee. I’m good at my job, over-qualified even. I show up on time and do quality work. I smile. I make small talk about the weather. I clean up after myself in the kitchen. I don’t complain when my raise falls short of inflation.

To be fair, I like my job and the people I spend my days with. The work can be interesting. The company is a good place as far money-making entities go. And while my day-to-day could be better — no job is perfect — it could also be a whole lot worse.

I’ve spent a lot of time unemployed… probably about three years when you add it all up. That’s way too much time sitting in coffee shops or at kitchen tables sending resumes into the ether. And none of it’s been by choice. I’ve been laid off six times in my career. A couple of those layoffs were from jobs I was happy to leave. Crazy bosses and soul-sucking commutes get old quickly. But the other four jobs seemed to offer opportunity for advancement, or at least I was willing to stick around until that opportunity showed up.

But then the elevator doors shut in my face.

I rose to manager level early on and have been stuck there for well over 20 years. My career has been a series of lateral moves spurred by layoffs and mounting bills. Smart, successful friends of mine have implored me to seek out opportunities when I have a job, operate from a position of strength. They’re right, of course. It’s just never panned out for me. Or life gets in the way. Usually a job search is back-burnered when I have a job and other more pressing issues. Those kids aren’t going to raise themselves.

At what point can I stop trying to keep up — never mind get ahead — and just enjoy where I am? The answer seems to be never. I’ve long since given up on those college notions of a giant paycheck and a corner office. I’m content to read about those people in the alumnae quarterlies. I’d rather just work and live.

I’ve stopped checking for the number of my assigned elevator when I scan in. What’s the point?