I quit my job the other day. In some ways it was overdue. In other ways, it feels like a huge mistake and I constantly find myself thinking, “oh fuck what have I done”. Recently, I’ve realized that I am a person who has, perhaps problematically, tied a lot of my self-worth and self-esteem into the praise I get at work. Materialism and status have, embarrassingly, been one of my greatest motivators in life. “If only I had x, then I’d be happy.” “If they see me with x, then I’ll be accepted.” “If they praise me for x, then I’ve made it.”
The problem is, this mindset also works in reverse. When the praise stops, or the motivation runs out, a person with this affliction will begin dying a slow, painful, shame-ridden death. You’ll find yourself becoming hangered (hate-angered? Is that a thing?) by the tiniest things. You’ll internalize these tiny things, ultimately questioning your inherent value at work, and perhaps even the world. It’s an addiction, in a way.
Whatever it is, it’s on a ten-day sabbatical. Thankfully, my next gig starts in less than a week, which allows me to notice this problem, examine it momentarily, and then bury that shit deep in my core for another five to seven years.
Regardless, some initial reflections on the In-Between-Time:
I decided to sit at the bar of a coffee shop / bookstore and take in the culture. Remember the show Cheers? With hottie Ted Danson?* This coffee shop bookstore bar has that same vibe. It’s “Cheers but make it coffee.” We have the regulars – the old-timers who come in every morning to sip coffee and read the NYT in real life paper form. Then we have the coffee baristas / bar tenders / book sellers. These people are so fucking cool with their acid-wash jeans and Lucite reading glasses. I wonder if they’re judging me for my oat milk vanilla latte. The vanilla, specifically. If I’m going to become a regular here, I need to make my coffee drink more hard-core. You know – an Americano. Black coffee. Something like that. Anyway, do you think they’ll judge me for buying this novel in the “cozy mystery” section? I couldn’t resist the “Reese’s Book Club” sticker on the cover. I know I am supposed to be reading some Yuval Harari shit with this crowd, but can’t I just be basic for one god-damn day?
I decided maybe I’d do a guided meditation to figure out who I am. The meditation led me to meeting my inner guide. My inner guide is supposed to be me, but twenty years in the future. This broad is supposed to be telling me what I already know, but for some reason I have to first travel to outer space on a beam of light and then transport myself to her house on a SEPARATE beam of light. You know what she looks like? A white-haired, super tan, super gorgeous old lady with a pilates bod and ultra-white teeth. If I’m going to be looking like this woman in twenty years, I better figure out a pilates program, stat. And I need a tan, too. Anyway, 56-year-old Lindsey is a fucking BOSS with a cottage filled with lush plants and deep-toned walls and she serves you tea on her sofa. I’ll do whatever that bitch tells me to do, yes please and thank you.
I can’t bring myself to deleting my Outlook apps, even though I’m going to a startup that uses Google Suite (I’m sorry. Google Suite? What the fuck even is that?) Those assholes already cut me off from all the things, and I know this because I keep getting these annoying pop-ups to re-enter my passwords, but for some reason deleting the apps feels too final and I just can’t do it. Is this what a breakup feels like? I’m sorry but I broke up with YOU so HOW DARE YOU to ERASE me from your website.
Saying goodbye to people who have had a material impact on your life feels way too hard and so instead you make a joke and tell them to “have a nice life” and hope they know you don’t mean the finality of that joke.
In your quest to figure out who you are, you decide to go shopping for clothing that will fit your new startup job lifestyle. The salesgirl asks you if you’d like a fitting room for the things you’re holding and you say yes. Then they approach you five minutes later exclaiming, “I found these other things you might like!” And then in the middle of the store she shows you the things that she thinks you will like. They’re all terrible, but to be nice you tell her you’ll try them. In the dressing room, you realize that the only things you like are the things she picked out, but you come out empty-handed because the last thing you need is to give this twenty-something the satisfaction that she knows how to dress you better than you do, and also it would require additional small talk, and you literally can’t even.
At another store, you buy something called a “shacket” which is a shirt slash jacket and you imagine yourself sipping a Moscow mule in said shacket at the coffee bookshop bar and feel like maybe you’re on your way to becoming something great.
What’s with all these people who greet you in stores by asking you sweetly, “What brings you in today?” Oh my god can’t I just wander into a store without being VERBALLY ASSAULTED?
Should I pierce my ears? Get a second set of earholes? Hell, maybe even a third set? These new colleagues don’t know who I am yet, and I’d like them to think I am edgy. Combine extra ear holes with the shacket and I think I’ve got it.
When you’re on sabbatical, you get to eat nachos and drink margaritas during the day and type stories on your laptop like some kind of mystery woman who smokes cigarettes in the corner of a dark and moody speakeasy. How do I make this lifestyle a full-time job and get paid for it?
So far sabbatical is all about eating and drinking and indulging and just generally being overly self-aware and self-conscious, but in public spaces.
Don’t ask a former colleague if they felt this sad when they quit, because they will say, “No. Frustrated maybe. Disappointed, perhaps. But not sad. That’s not an emotion I would have about a job.” And then you spiral for a few days because why the fuck do you feel sad about a fucking job?!
*Look, I know we’re all gushing over Bennifer 2.0 right now, but you know the actual Hollywood Power Couple is Ted Danson and Mary Steensburgen. Mary is the ultimate Christmas-Movie-Mom we all know and love. And Ted? Talk about a silver fox, am I right ladies? Then you take Mary’s daughter-in-law, Lily Collins of the Phil-Collins-Dynasty. She can obviously do no wrong, don’t even get me started on the greatest show of our time, Emily in Paris. Imagine being at the holiday party with this family. It’s the IRL holiday rom-com we’re all dying for.