Quitter

So, I quit my job.

And I've been brewing up a post about this transition but haven't sat down to write it yet, partially because I've been up to my ears in other pressing issues and partially because... well, mlech. It's layered and thorny and it kind of makes me want to throw up.

The quick and dirty:
+More money.
-Less time at home.
+Better benefits (in that there are at least SOME).
-Less flexibility.
+Creative challenge.
-Constant judgment.
+Room to grow.
+/-Giving up permission to be mediocre 8 hours a day.
+/- taking a job on purpose, because I want it, not because I need a job while I work on the next big thing. That's the scariest.

The long and muckier:
And then there is the gnawing fact that when I left my desk job to go to massage school, the last place I ever wanted to be again was behind a desk. And now I'm staring at a 40 hour workweek and the words 'business casual.' What I envisioned was something I would love that would allow me to take my time in the mornings and swing by the Goodwill to kill a few hours in the afternoon if I felt like it, drag out my sewing machine, or take my dog to the vet without rearranging the world. You know, a total non-job. Actually, that setup? I think they call that inheritance.

And then there is the part about this being selfish in positive ways, about giving myself permission to find something I like to do, something that keeps my interest. And the part about being selfish in not-so-positive ways, putting my career before my family, giving up my extra day with Bird when I already have a job that makes ends meet, albeit barely. There's the feeling that I have years to be career-minded, that I should trudge through whatever job lets me be more of a mama.

Okay that's it. We're not talking about it anymore. This is boring. Except:

The day before I accepted this job I was sitting at a stoplight right here in Middle Tennessee, next to a semi truck from beautiful Las Cruces, NM. Hold on, this is significant.

Here's what I know about Las Cruces: It's a smallish city/college town near the border of Mexico, home to one of the schools that accepted me into its MFA program in creative writing in 1999. It's the town where I signed a lease on a one-bedroom adobe house and spent a few days meeting the other students in the program and talking with the writer in residence. And it's the place I never lived after my dad had a heart attack that year and I couldn't wrap my brain around not being able to drive home.

I didn't go for a lot of reasons I don't regret, another one of them being my now-husband who was my then-newish-boyfriend. But it has been my "what if" for going on ten years, and it showed up-- a semi truck from a smallish NM town-- right next to me here in Middle Tennessee. A truck from the town that was going to make me a writer appears during the days I spent trying to decide if I'm meant to be one. My 'what if' reminder.

So there you have it. Still making me nauseous, but I believe the hard part is over-- now if I could just warm up these damn feet. Here's to slacks on the 21st. I can't believe I just said that.

And on to the important stuff:

Bird is driving me fucking bananas. TWO. OhmygodTWO. Simultaneously sugar-sweet and raised from the pits of hell. She moved into the 2-3 year old class at daycare: big kid undies, big-kid swings, the whole shootin' match. She's a little person going through a big transition, just like me, and it isn't always graceful. I have a feeling we're driving each other fucking bananas.