A year ago this week, I started a new job at Mega Corporate Behemoth. On my first day, I sat alone for 15 minutes in the lobby, waiting for my manager to fetch me. She was late because she had to stop for coffee. Because coffee was a higher priority.
I should have paid attention to the signs and run screaming from the building.
I have a friend who once took a new employee out for lunch on her first day. The newbie ordered an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, paid for by her new employer – and then never showed back at the office after lunch. Or ever.
My friend was horrified, but in a way, I admire that kind of moxie. Especially since sometimes, there are really obvious clues that a gig is not a good fit. See also: my first-day lunch at Mega Corporate Behemoth, wherein my boss and her harpy lieutenant invited me to dine, then ignored me and my attempts to join the conversation.
I was so unhappy in that job. Even thinking about it a year later makes me sad.
However, things are better.
I only had to sit in my Cube of Despair for 2 months until I was canned. That was a blessing.
In my next, equally boring but way-nicer gig at Globotron, I relearned that yes, there are nice people in Corporate America. I actually made friends. I also learned once and for all that I am not meant to be a cube dweller.
When My Guy and I agreed that I needed to say goodbye to Corporate America for good, he had 3 stipulations:
- Be happier.
- Don’t feel guilty.
- For the love of all that is holy, no more dogs.
Well, 2 outta 3 ain’t bad.
I’m still struggling with the guilt. I don’t bring in the cash that I used to. And how could I possibly be a productive member of society when I’m unshowered and wearing yoga pants? Yoga pants with dirty paw prints on them?
I’m also struggling with how to describe myself, or explain what I do. My friends ask how things are going, and I’m at a loss, except to say, “Great!” and change the subject.
I’m kind of being a housewife and kind of being a writer. And I’m toying with calling myself an artist instead of a writer, because people expect artists to be a little crazy and defy description. What kind of writer can’t even find the words to describe herself? But an artist? Well, that’s different.
Here’s what I know: I have 3 dogs curled up under my desk and a giant canine noggin resting on my foot. A dachshund is snoring. I am blessed.
A little frustrated at my difficulty in figuring it all out. But blessed.