So I've mentioned for a while now that changes are in the air, that I'm sorting things out, that something big is going to happen.
This is it.
As of today, a Very Good Friday, I gave 2 weeks' notice at work. This is a very good thing.
I do not have another job lined up. (I do have a resume, and I'm not afraid to use it, but it's nowhere right now but on my computer).
I need air. I need space. I need to clean out my head and see what's left in there once I scrub out the taste of lawyers and the detritus left behind from 30 years in a cubicle.
Sounds like a prison sentence. I'm beginning to think it was, I just didn't notice it at first. But you know what? When you realize you're in a hole, the first thing you should do is stop digging.
This must have been percolating in the back of my mind for some time, because when the idea hit me in January that I just couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't be responsible for keeping myself this unhappy just to keep the mortgage paid and the lights on, I took a look at my finances and realized that by being my generally thrifty self, by not buying much fabric, by cooking from scratch and happily eating in most of the time, and by refusing to give in to the urge for retail therapy, I actually had enough money put by to carry me through at least half a year of voluntary unemployment.
Or even a longer period, if I chose to do something that paid less but didn't suck my soul out through my pores every single freaking day.
Are you getting the idea yet of how much I've grown to hate my job? It's not even that particular place, per se. Okay, well, it is. They were the straw that broke me. But I've worked in one law firm or another since 1982, and in all those long years, I've never had more than a one week vacation at a time, and never more than a week between jobs. Usually the jobs were back to back, with a weekend in between to decompress.
What was I doing that for? Do I want to turn into an old woman like my aunt, applying for food stamps in her last months while she had nearly a quarter mil in the bank, so worried about not having money that she couldn't see reality? (None of that came to me, by the way; if this damsel in distress was going to get rescued, she was going to do it her damn self. And she did).
Long story short. Or long, looking at how much I've already written. I'm too old to be this miserable at a job, and young enough to still do something about it. I'm not proud; I'll do whatever I feel like I need to do to get by, but for a while I just want to . . . be.
I've given my daylight hours to someone else for 30 years in service of their dreams. It would help just a little if they seemed the slightest bit happier than I am, but I don't think they are.
Not everyone can do this. Not everyone would want to. This is my experiment, and I'm looking forward to it like you cannot believe.