My mother says that if it’s the right thing, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it, and that, at least, has been true…I can’t stop thinking about the idea of leaving my job. It’s not that I’m not thinking about what job I’d be going into, but there’s something very physical and intensely relieving about the thought of telling everyone I am leaving. There’s something oddly thrilling, too, if I set aside the real factor of discomfort, fear, about having the die in my hand. Having the right to exit the stage without consulting anyone, that nobody, technically, can stop me. Of course, I still am pretty profoundly freaked out about this. I am not clear. Even if my father says it’s a no-brainer. That he would jump at it if he could, that he spent 27 years in a dead-end job. My job isn’t a dead-end job, but the room for advancement does require me to be a zombie to get there. I have given up so much in the way of time and peace of mind. This is a piece of the puzzle, a giant piece, that will actually allow me to get a glimpse of what the picture we’re trying to put together is.
And I saw a Margaret Atwood quote:
“Last year I abstained
this year I devour
which is also an art”
This feels a bit like a mantra I could hang a hat on. That instead of backing off when all of this amazing stuff is happening – vacations and cosplay and writing group and this visceral desire to be more of what I want and less of the person everyone else relies on me to be. I held back, I waited, waited for a long time. I am s
The guy was there. I was cute enough, for me, for my expectations, without looking like a box of cleavage. This is not cute enough, I guess, to instigate anything based on the fact that I am cute. Though he is very cute and I didn’t instigate anything, either, so, I guess that’s not a verifiable fact. He was nice in general, but not so specifically to me, even though I tried my damndest to find a reason to hang about and be as chatty as possible. To talk about myself and keep my ear open when he talked about himself. He seemed like the sort of guy who might have got into some trouble with the law which is who he is. Just all this pent up energy, something sort of sad and failed. Friendly, but my being there didn’t seem of any consequence. I flinch at the person I might have seemed to be to him. So my desire to be his girlfriend has, perhaps, diminished. However, based on that face, my desire to go make out with him in a closet has probably tripled.
When I talked about some decision new boss would be making, some arbitrary reply to another volunteer about policy, he looked me in the eye to convince me that this was wrong and I had to shrug my shoulders because it’s so above my paygrade to worry about. His eyes were very blue and intense, sincere, as if this odd little circumstance mattered to him immensely. So, I felt guilty, in my truthful shrug, because I think the policy is right and I know the reasons behind it and he’s just one, spastic dude who only has a gut reaction, but I got to be the bitch who didn’t give a shit about something he seemingly cared about. It wasn’t exactly the heavy breathing, gaze across the room in feverish UST sort of last moment I was hoping for. I’ll be gone next week and then, after that, I guess, the opportunities will be few and then, nil.
More to say, but I have to go scrape some more glitter off a a bunny mask.