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).

YES THIS IS MY BRAIN SHUTUP.

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.

 

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Old man. Snoring

November 20, 2009 at 2:59 pm (what was she thinking) (, , , )

It is Friday, I am wearing jeans that are probably from the 1990’s (what year is it anyway?), a ponytail, and glasses and YES, I feel pretty.  It is cloudy and dreary and chilly in the world outside of my window and I’ve spent a good amount of time talking and typing people’s ears off with my current weather report, scientifically based on the flag perched atop the building across from my 20th floor window. 

“Woaaah!  Looks like it is getting wiiild out there, dude.  The flag is choking its pole!”

“Look at that flag go!  Sure looks windy out there.”

I am a genius.  Don’t hate.

So, blah blah blah, work, blah blah, dreaming of being in my doggy’s arms, eating the vegan cupcake waiting for me at home, and watching horrible tv (uhm, James Franco is on General Hospital, WHY AM I HERE) . . . which leads me to what I am perving around on the internet for lately. 

Survey says . . . cozy bamboo items!  I found some of the softest bamboo undiepants at the Green Festival and of course they only had size HUGE for HIPPY (just kidding!  I’m a hippy, we’re all hippies!), so I was unable to purchase them.  Usually, unrequited lust quickly becomes obsession for me. 

Therefore, check out some of this cozy dreamwear (some of etsy’s finest) that I hope will get on my body someday soon.

Fashion + function.  Built-in bib/crumb-catcher meets cozy, pretty top meets incredibly realistic mannequin nipples.

I don’t really wear beanies, but I might start.  New fashion icon:  Johnny Depp.

Leggings are totally pants.  Shutup.

Cute dress with maximum space for food baby expansion.

And, finally, the addition of cute little side bows keeps you from looking like a complete jerkface in these yogini pants.

Now get shopping (for me!).  I will be waiting on my couch, eagerly awaiting your arrival/gifts.

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It’s not a competition

April 9, 2009 at 2:47 pm (visuals) (, )

Someone tells me that all of the time.  Well, guess what?  Some things are competitions.  Like work contests.  Sure, I was a bracket loser, but behold the award winning egg design.

octo

The designers working very hard.  We rule!

withelizabeth

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