"I hate my job," I said out loud to my boss while she poured me something completely ridiculous and delicious: an organic strawberry Sam Smith's lager.
"Well, let's talk seriously for a moment," she sat down next to me with a Bundaberg ginger beer. "Why don't you quit?"
"Because I value financial security," I said, almost dejected about it.
The plan, the plan is to hang on until next year, double my savings, take the bonus, and quit shortly thereafter.
___
I just finished a book. It was really beautiful, even though there is a GLARING cliche on the first page. Painful.
The title refers to the unnamed illness of the compulsion to go with no destination: a human condition.
___
The bar has cleared out for the post-happy-hour, pre-late-night lag--a magic time of dusk, lots of energy.
"You're YOUNG! You're BEAUTIFUL! And you have so many opportunities! Why are you doing something that makes you so unhappy? You're obviously unhappy! Do something else!"
"But what?" I say.
"Take on a few shifts here! Do whatever you want to do!"
It's nice, for my problem to be too much work. It's a problem, but it's easier than too little work. Having no money was a whole other side of misery; it correlates directly with stress, and having money means less stress.
Ok, I think. Ok, I have enough saved up. I can support myself with no income for three months. I can support myself with bar income indefinitely. I can get all my doctor's appointments done in the next month. And then I can walk away.
___
"I'm nervous," I say, not to anyone, just to myself, in the mirror.
___
"I'm scared," I think; if I keep it inside, if I don't say it or write it, it's not real.
___
It's hard to admit these things to myself, and even harder to admit them to anyone else.