Well, here I go initiating change, and I really, really hate myself right now.
My life is not something anyone would aspire to. It's not super-exciting; I'm not a part-time skydive instructor or belly dancer or celebrity impersonator. I don't channel spirits. I don't even have the thrill of watching pro wrestling on any consistent basis. (Hell, I'm not even cool enough to say that I've wanted to watch it consistently.) I'm just a writer who decided to get an administrative job in order to pay the bills and occasionally indulge in my gadget habit.
Oh my word, it's a pizza cutter that looks like a circular saw. Do you take Visa?
Well, yesterday I found out that my administrative job doesn't want me anymore. By the end of the month I'm going to be out on my tuckus, another member of the unemployed.
Seriously, it's not me. They've been laying people off in droves around here. I'd say about a full fifth of the place is empty. I've kinda seen this coming, and I've been, unfortunately, almost smug about the fact that I have a Plan B.
The thing is this: I was going to leave this job anyway. Tim and I have been planning for years that we would relocate to somewhere with a far friendlier climate. We had even decided on the time of year that we would go.
But, hypocrite that I am, instead of aggressively planning for the date by cancelling the cable and calling a moving company and just getting the freak up there already, I fell into an endless string of days dominated by the notion that "I'll get around to it."
Because I love my life. It's comfortable. My home is not a showplace, but it's beautiful to me. I
Did you hear that?
I was ready to trade in all my dreams and fancies for the comforts around me, a soft little nest into which a geriatric mouse curls itself up to die.
When I moved to Austin, I was 18 years old. I didn't give two shits about the fact that my life was changing irrevocably. I was a kid, and kids don't stop their lives over the thought that they'll miss their childhood bedroom, and they'd never again wake up in the middle of the night to realize they could hear their parents snoring softly in the room across the hall, or that all of the music they loved would be replaced in a matter of five years by music that makes them want to either cry or punch a keyboardist in the face. Kids live their lives; they move into their future with heads held high and barely a backwards glance.
I'm not a kid anymore. I've grown up and gotten married. I've learned the tenuous nature (by misadventure) of a credit rating, and how it can affect your life in ways you could have never expected. I've learned how close we all really stand to the edge of the world as we know it, and how easy it would be to fall off into a different world, full of sadness and regrets and poverty and despair. I'm a scared adult, and leaving the soft, cushiony nest of my home and my life is . . .
That's it, folks. I'm terrified. I know I'll find another job. As my husband says, it's my superpower. I know I'll love living in that part of the country. But I will go home every day for the next two weeks and gaze around at the home Tim and I bought together, filled with symbols of our toil and shared taste, think of the memories we made there -- and yeah, I'll probably cry.
So when you see me, could you do me a favor? Buy me a fruity drink. Then tell me the following, with no paraphrasing or omissions:
"GET THE FUCK OVER IT, YOU HYPOCRITE."
Much obliged. Really.