I quit my job today.

February 7, 2011 at 11:52 pm (what was she thinking) ()

Oh, yes.  I did that thing up there.

I have been at my semi-comfortable yet ill-fitting job for a very long time.  Multiple sleepless nights fraught with Sunday Blues or crippling Next Day Dread had me day-dreaming about this very day quite often – with the ifs and whens and hows filling up a bubble that hovered over my head, bloating it with possibility and consequence until . . .  it eventually popped.  I wiped up the mess and went back to life-as-usual, developing amnesia over the thought-bubble’s existence.  It was too heavy to carry.  And far too murky and littered with obstacles to process.  Every morning I put on one of my many affordable wool or polyester dresses and thick tights, all shades within the color of a bruise (the uniform of the uninspired), and forced myself to go back and earn an honest living and convince myself that my negative attitude was my only problem.  I clipped down the street from the bus stop to my office and saw my troubles reflected in the many furrowed brows bobbing through the Financial District.  Joining them was the price I had to pay for not making the right choices throughout my life.  I was late for work every single day.

Quitting My Job didn’t go the way I thought it would.  It was not dramatic.  My delivery lacked triumphant undertones.  I didn’t scream, “I QUIT” into anyone’s face, list my grievances, or hop onto a file cart and roll out of the place with my middle fingers stretched to the sky, fanning and slicing unfiled papers into surprised faces, shouting, “SEE YA LATER SUCKAAAAAS!” with a maniacal, go-ahead-and-call-security-to-escort-me-out grin.  I didn’t sprout wings or suddenly learn how to take in the appropriate amount of oxygen in one breath.  I didn’t lose any weight in my step.

The whole thing was, um, fine.  Fine like a life with a stable lot, a reliable paycheck, and functional shoes.  Fine like a mediocre salad bar.

Unlike the me in my dreams, after I gave my official notice, I felt nothing but fear that perhaps I have made a fatal mistake and could not turn back.  I was a rubber-band ball of nerves bouncing my way down a one-way tunnel, not completely sure that the way I was going was the right way, certain that I was heading for a collision of immeasurable proportions.  I had clammy palms.  I envisioned my life on the street.  Tap dancing in dirty, bare feet.  Savoring the last tooth dangling from my slick gums.  Relying on old, broken eyeglasses held together by scotch tape.  Using my English major to pen the perfect sign for begging (something honest and witty, not too desperate, but pathetic enough to make them give me some money so I can pay for another night at a residence hotel or for a snack for my loyal, emaciated dog).


I am still a little wired.

So, in a nutshell, instability makes me a little bit crazy.  Stability makes me a little bit crazy.  But I figure getting closer to something I love makes me the good, passionate kind of crazy.  And I am holding on to that thought like a pin, ready to instantly pop any future head-hovering anxiety bubbles.

Wish me luck.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: