There are a million career change stories out there. Icy at Individual Chic left a comment in response to yesterday’s article, The “can do” skill, about a friend of hers who went from being a chemical engineer, to an animator for Disney!

That’s quite a significant career shift!

A few years ago I was chatting to a careers advisor who told about me about a stockbroker working in Sydney, who had probably presented the worse case of career burn out he had ever seen.

The stockbroker was apparently working 18 hours a day, six days a week. Even on his “day off” he was still studying market trends and keeping in touch with clients.

Then one morning he woke up and decided he’d had enough. He wanted time to slow down so he could “smell the roses”, and take in a bit more of what was happening around him.

He had approached the careers advisor because he simply had no idea what he wanted to do next. The advisor subjected him to all sorts of career aptitude tests, but none of the results seemed to excite the stockbroker.

Then one morning the erstwhile stockbroker arrived at the careers advisor’s office announcing he had found his new vocation in life; sweeping leaves in the nearby domain!

Apparently he had seen a council worker going about his duties in the park and had become ever more curious as to what the job entailed.

It was outdoors work. The hours were set, 8am to 4pm, five days per week. No overtime. And as a bonus, he really could take time to “smell the roses” in the park!

So he went from being a stockbroker on a six-figure salary, to a gardener on a far more humble income. But he was happy. He still apparently felt that way some months later when the careers advisor saw him one morning.

The only adjustment the former stockbroker really had to get used to was the change in lifestyle, as a result of the reduction in his salary!

This story reminded me of a former boss of mine. He had been for some years the assistant general manager of a nationwide company.

Then the company was taken over, and it was decided it would be totally dissolved. The assistant general manager was made CEO of the soon to be defunct entity, and was charged with the task of winding up the operation.

It turned out to be the most stressful six months of his life, as he had to make colleagues he had worked with for years redundant, and break up the company he had spent years trying to build up!

Eventually his last day of arrived, and after leaving with his final pay cheque, wondered what he would do next for work.

Then he spotted a “now hiring” sign on a gateway, and within minutes had signed up for work as a building site labourer!

According to former colleagues who saw him some years later, he was still very happy in his new career, even though he could easily have found another executive role. He however just wasn’t interested in the responsibility (read: stress) that came with such a position.

Changing careers is about finding meaningful work. Work you find meaningful, whatever that is. Not the next person, or the neighbours, definition of meaningful, but yours.

In fact I shouldn’t even call the two career transitions I’ve just described as “downshifting”. If it’s what you want to do, then it is neither going downwards nor backwards.

Apparently being a stockbroker is a glamourous job. Or fabulous, as we say it at The InterChange Desk.

I read as much in a glossy magazine (whose title evades me now) while sitting in my dentist’s waiting room the other afternoon. (It was an article featuring stockbrokers, not unfortunately, The InterChange Desk, just in case there was any confusion in that last sentence.)

Really fabulous jobs, like being a rock star, actor, fashion photographer, model, et al, the ones that totally evade mere mortals like us, are what I’d consider to be, well, absolutely fabulous.

As a stockbroker you have to wear a suit. A gray pin-stripe suit at that. Not to mention dull ties, and boring business shirts, and while I’m laying on the generalisations ad lib, bowler hats. Unless you’re a stockbroker working in New York.

You also have the privilege of working in an office.

And it is on that basis I fail to see how stockbroking could possibly be considered… glamorous.

Sorry to break it to you, but there is nothing glamourous, fabulous, or otherwise cool, about working in an office. Why do you think this column is called the FAB (pro)files? Because so far none of the occupations reviewed have been office based.

Nor do they involve wearing a suit (Ok, aside from a uniform here, and a SPACE suit there…). Unless it was personally designed by one of the fashion gods.

And sure, Ricky Gervais made office work look cool, but that was all made up. No one really had to suffer “working” in those beige conditions, under those beige fluorescent lights.

Truly fabulous jobs entail not getting out of bed each morning for anything less than ten thousand dollars, and even then only working for 20 minutes a day. Or something. Truly fabulous jobs only require the uttering of a smart one-liner, or posing with a suitably sensuous pout and smoldering darkness in your eyes.

Also I don’t know how shouting yourself hoarse on the overcrowded trading floor of a stock exchange is remotely glamourous. That sounds more like a long hard night at the Roundhouse bar during O Week at the local university.

Then again stockbrokers are on a pretty good retainer. They probably have a few Mercedes and Rolls parked in the garage. Vintage models and late models. And the garage probably has ten parking bays, and is also air conditioned.

It sits underneath the 35 room mansion stockbrokers live in, which is accessed by elevators from the garage. Out in the backyard you’ll find an Olympic size swimming pool, and most likely a nine hole golf course.

They probably have a couple of holidays homes along the coast, and take two month vacations to where ever takes their fancy annually.

So yes, all up, it’s not a bad lark really. They probably even get a few tax breaks as well. Depreciation on the vintage cars, or something.

Still I think classing it a fabulous job is a tad over the top. I think someone’s had a whiskey or three. Peated single malt, 12-year-old whiskey, that is.