Interlude

It probably doesn't need to be said again, but I have to: getting laid off from my old job has been such a RELIEF. I can't tell you how many times I've paused in the middle of some humdrum activity and just let out a huge sigh of relief. It's not unlike that wonderful sensation of unclasping your bra after a long day at the office and letting the girls breath free. I hear. That is, I've heard that the ladies don't like...

Ahem.

The last time I was in such a situation was about four years ago. My move down to Seattle from Anchorage hadn't been planned too far in advance; I believe I had about three weeks to get my affairs in order before I left the Last Frontier. Once I arrived, I found myself in a situation that I could only describe as painful; I had no job, no savings, and was living with my mother. At age 30, that's not exactly good for the old ego. At the time, I was full of vim and vigor, and determined to get on my feet as soon as possible. I was optimistic enough to believe that I could find work with alacrity.

I can be so silly sometimes.

What followed was  roughly 18 months of misery and depression. When I wasn't filling out applications, I was slumped in my room, trying to distract myself with copious binge watching of netflix. It wasn't until after I finally got my job and traded one style of misery for another that I realized how much time I had wasted. During all that time, I didn't do much of any writing, nor did I work on my acting, or any other possible hobbies that could have lifted me from my slump. It was only once I was getting stressed out at work did I lament the sand at the bottom of the hour glass. I recall stomping out of work after one hellish evening and vowing to myself that if I were ever struck with the opportunity to have an unfettered schedule, I would seize it the way Garfield seizes lasagna.

And now here I am.

I cannot help but feel as if I'm in an interlude of sorts. Barring any unforeseen complications, I find myself with a few months time in which I can focus on my poor neglected book without fear of homelessness and starvation. That isn't to say that looking for a job isn't a priority; I have no desire to try and live off of unemployment for the next six months. But, I am afforded the time and leisure to actually focus on finding a job that is right for me, rather than frantically grabbing at whatever fruit happens to hang lowest to the ground. Especially if that fruit is coconut.

I hate these things. It's the consistency. And the taste. 

But simply finding a suitable job isn't going to cut it anymore.

If the past three years at my former job has taught me anything, it's that I'm not truly cut out for the traditional job thing. I don't respond well to authority; I'm rebellious, smart-mouthed, and plagued with temper issues. I've never been the type who is satisfied reporting to a boss. I've come to realize that I'm just not suited for that kind of life. My biggest fear is that I'll end up getting another job, and being stuck in the exact situation I was in before: stressed out, angry, and feeling caged.

Pictured: the average 9-5 worker.

And since I'm sure no one wants to read another three years worth of angst-ridden blog posts about why my life is shitty, it would behoove me to find an alternative route. Thus, henceforth I will be focusing my energy on finding a way out. I don't know exactly what I'll do, but something has to be done. My clearest path is, you guessed it, writing.

One of the things that I find so attractive about the idea-- the goal-- of being a published writer is that I would be my own boss. I could do something that I like doing to make an honest living without answering to some corporate mouthpiece willing to treat me like a pawn and sacrifice me as such for the sake of "business needs." Frankly, I'm tired of being someone else's bitch in return for essentially pennies.

How many is your dignity worth?

But really, who isn't?

So the interlude will likely last for some duration while I work on how to escape the infinite loop of Samsara. Getting employment-- work that offers a decent wage without sacrificing my physical health and mental well being-- is just the first step, and most definitely not the end goal. Not like last time, when I was blinded by the prospect of large pay checks and getting out of my mom's house.

Beyond mere work, the real goal is to get to a point where I can look forward to the future with optimism and hope, rather than bleak despair. It's saying something that I can actually say with a straight face that I believe it's possible.

The Great Escape!

Today, August 1st, would have marked the third year anniversary of my being hired at my job. I say "would have" because my being employed at the job is not a thing anymore. That's right, the job and I have broken up! Much like a that awkward couple who only stayed together because they fear being alone more than making each other miserable, the job and I sort of leaned on each other in a decidedly unhealthy manner; I needed the thin sheets of green paper hat it provided in order to survive, while it needed someone to answer phones and do busy work.

We stuck it out for a while, tried to make things work; there was even couples therapy involved, but in the end, we just couldn't handle it.

It happened on another Monday a couple of weeks ago, July 18th to be exact. I came into work, anticipating a standard Monday: too much work and not enough people to do it. Monday's, for some strange reason, is always to busiest day of the week. Starting at 5 pm, everyone up and decides that they just have to visit the ER-- apparently it's what all the cool kids do.

Quick, to the ER!

When I walked through the doors, I was expecting the usual: work nagging me in the form of blinking lights and the infernal screeching of phones ringing off the hook, hospital staff on the other end convinced that their phone call is the most important thing going on at that moment, and I need to drop whatever I'm doing to handle their problem for them. I'm not bitter. Nope.

Instead, I found work waiting for me with a call, patiently serious look on its face. Uh oh, that's never a good sign; the irrational screams I can deal with, but when work is quiet...

"We need to talk," Work said in way of greeting as I prepared to take my seat. Never a good sign.

"Sure," I responded. I moved to set my backpack down at my desk, but work was motioning me to follow it.

"Bring your bag with you," Work said.

Well then.

I followed Work out of the office and down the hall, making small talk along the way. I was led into a small conference room and bid to take a sit. Work left and returned a moment later with a lady. "This is HR," Work said, introducing us.

Work and HR sat down with me and began to speak. The long and short of it was that the company, due to business needs, was eliminating all of the part-time shifts, of which mine was one. They had three open shifts for me to choose from. Looking over them, I quickly concluded that none of them were desirable; each was a full-time morning shift. Working morning shifts would pretty much erase any ability to audition and get acting jobs; most take place downtown, a good distance away even if the traffic gods show mercy. With only a 30 minute lunch break, I couldn't even use that to try and squeeze one in every now and again. Even worse, working mornings would mean less pay, because the evening shifts receive a pay bump to make up for working god awful hours and murdering your social life.

But when it got down to it, I just couldn't work there full-time. The Job and I couldn't be around each other for that much time; the stress and anxiety would cause me to put my fist through one (or several) computer screens.

So I did the only logical thing, and turned down the offer. Job, knowing me as well as it did, understood and had anticipated my decision. And so I was officially laid off.

I couldn't be more jubilant.

This is me. All of them are me.

The break up was amicable. We each expressed mutual hopes for each others well being and left it at that. I'm shocked to say that I left without any residual venom in my system, and even stranger, with a clean job record and no bad references.

Real talk, I've spent years griping and complaining and bitching about the pressure and stress the job brought me. It started out pretty well, but it quickly spiraled out of control, until I began to hate it and dread going. For the average adult, work is the place you tolerate in order to not have to invest in prime real estate on a street corner with a fancy card board box. It's not a place they enjoy going to, but it balances out. Very few of us get to work our dream jobs and exist in that blissful mind state of actually enjoy working. Some of us are in my position, where you actively loath your work.

I can finally put that feeling behind me. And damn, does it feel amazing. For the longest time, I felt as if there was a massive weight pressing down on my chest, as if Donald Drumpf's ego had suddenly decided to us my ribs as a sofa.

So I now find myself in a situation that the average working adult dreads more than visits from the in-laws; laid off and on unemployment, spending hours of the day looking for work, wondering how I'll make ends meet. But I'm honestly not worried. I feel a strange sense of... optimism?

No, that can't be right. Optimism and I are an oxymoron, like tall dwarf, cold fire, and intelligent Trump voter. But somehow, there it is.

As an aside, it has taken me a couple of weeks to actually get this down; initially, I was going to post this the night of the Great Escape-- I mean the layoff. But I've had a bitch of a time getting the words down in my characteristically hilarious manner. I pointed this out to a friend of mine, who promptly responded, "Well yeah. Your humor is self-deprecating and acts as a defense mechanism. Since you're actually happy, you don't know how to write it." Well, to my friend, I say have this retort:

"You face is a defense mechanism! What, what!"