Yesterday marked 6 months until the wedding.  Sarge and I celebrated by opening some sparkly from the engagement party and watching a double-bill of The Usual Suspects and Mixed Nuts.  Guess which one was my choice.


We were also toasting the the fact that I quit my job on Friday.  Although I prefer the term ‘left voluntarily’.  See, the giant stresshead I mentioned in my last post kinda exploded.

The first flowery boot dropped on Thursday night at a quiz with our book group friends.  The building was so old, I couldn’t fit through the door without transferring into another chair while Sarge took the tires off mine, and put them back on after crossing the threshold.

Cover of "Mixed Nuts"

Cover of Mixed Nuts

‘There’s still so much to be done,’ I said. ‘I’m so in the wrong job.’

The next morning, between gulp two and three of coffee, looking out at the snow, I asked Sarge for the zillionth time, ‘would you think less of me if I left?’

‘This isn’t your career. You haven’t slept in a month, which means I haven’t.  You’ve changed, and I miss you.  So, quit.’

I went in on my first day, shortly after a front wheel spun out and rolled down the road behind me.  I’d tried not to think my first morning on three wheels would be a metaphor for the rest of my time there.

But I never felt solid.  I like to be good at what I do.  To be sure of myself.  I like conviction in my work voice.  I like to modulate my phone voice so people can’t figure out where I’m from.  But the New York comes out when I’m nervous.  I was never not nervous in this job.  The stress was making my CP physically painful, which hasn’t happened since I had my hips surgically broken when I was a kid.

So, I went in on Friday, and came right out again.  ‘The people are lovely,’ I said. ‘But this isn’t for me.’  I might have got a little emotional,  actually saying, ‘I’ve never quit a job in my life.’

I failed to mention I didn’t care about the job.  That I couldn’t get behind late phone-covers and box-sets that were the wrong region.  I did like helping grannies, though.  And I might have teared up when an old Irish guy was so happy I could help he said, ‘God bless ye, Lorna.  Merry Christmas.’  But I think I cried because it was my time of the month.  Did I mention that?

I will never think of dedicated customer service jobs the same way again.  Points for the people who do them.  You are stronger than me.

Anyway.  I left on Friday, and immediately split the cost of a Shiatsu massage seat-cover with Sarge.  Platinum investment, that.  True story.

I’d been reading the same book for a month.  Finally finished it yesterday, in bed with coffee.

And yesterday was the first conversation with my father in a awhile that didn’t include an existential crisis on my end of the line.  He’s happy that I’ve followed my heart.  My mother says that quitting a job is a rite of passage.  I can dig that.

And I’m getting married in 5 months and a bunch of days.  That’s another one.

Bring it on.

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