36 Days

That is the length of time standing between me and freedom.

In 36 days, I will paint myself blue and run through the mountains of Montana with a claymore (or, barring that, a butcher knife) screaming, “FREEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

In 36 days, I will be done with this year, with this job.  I will embark on two months without work, three vacations, and a lot of writing.  I will regain some of my precious sanity, which for now I don’t have the energy to go off and corral, and it’s ignoring me when I call for it.  Dammit.

This year has been a lesson in many things.  The first of which is that I ought to have learned by now to trust my gut.  I should have trusted my gut a year ago when I received that tantalizing email offering me this job. It was $15,000 a year more than I had ever made.  So, I rationalized, I would handle the godawful early mornings.  I would handle the 60-80 hour weeks.  I would grin and bear it for two years.

And then my health fell into the shitter, my sanity started pouncing leaves off on the funny farm, I went for months on about three hours of sleep per night, and some idiot (four idiots, actually) ran their vehicles into mine, the most recent and spectacular of which resulted in a substantially serious neck injury that I am still feeling six weeks later.  And after all these little hints from the universe, I got it.  I should have trusted my instincts last year when they warned me that this wasn’t for me.

For years people would hear that I studied history in college and would ask, “Oh, so you’re going to teach?” to which I would reply, “No.  Never.  Never ever ever.  I want to write.  Or possibly become a hermit.”

So why on earth did I ever think this would be a good idea?  I knew it was a horrible idea for me, the introvert, hermit-like, paperwork-hating, nocturnal writer to take a job where I would be surrounded by people constantly, forced to do mountains of absolutely pointless paperwork,  and get out of bed three hours after my body clock likes to go to bed?  What on earth possessed me to do this to myself?

In the end, I think it was money.  I’ve never been financially stable.  My family is way below the poverty line.  To my family, the poverty line is on top of the Empire State Building, and they’re in the lobby looking at their reflections in the polished floor.  And the elevator’s busted.  And my mom’s disabled and can’t get up the damn stairs.

This is what I get for greed.  Especially because I’m no better off really than I was a year ago.  Imagine that; salary goes up, expenses go up.  Well, the latter bit is mainly because I had to buy a car.  But I digress.  Anyway.

36 days.

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About Emmie Mears

Saving the world from brooding, one self-actualized vampire at a time.

Posted on 17 May, 2010, in meanderings, snapshots life, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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