Well, that was short-lived.
As you may already know (I’m writing pretending that someone
– anyone – actually reads this), I did in fact quit my job at Company X three
weeks ago, June 23 to be exact. I resigned in a supremely awkward manner, which
probably comes as no surprise to anyone who actually knows me. I’m a lot of
things, but suave and sophisticated are not two words I would use to describe
myself.
Now, before I recount the tale of my departure, a little
background. I had actually decided I would quit at the end of July. I was tired
of complaining, tired of being miserable, and frankly, rather tired of being a
living, barely breathing lame duck. It had become apparent that I was never
going to get transferred, not unless I made some revolutionary personality
adjustments, i.e. a lobotomy. Can you imagine me undergoing electric shock
therapy and grumbling, “Issa,” a la Carrie Mathison? Don’t answer that.
Anyway, I had decided that, yes, I was going to quit, I just
wanted to get a few more checks under my belt, take advantage of my dental
insurance, and then July 31 was going to be my last day. Now, mind you, this
was all in my head. I did not mention this to my manager at all.
But you know how sometimes an hour can feel like a day, and
a week crawls by like a month? The idea of working five more weeks just became
untenable. I realized that wasn’t feasible, nor was it good for my mental
health. This has been a bizarre year for me. I knew that it would take some
time to acclimate back to Boston, but I think I was naïve to the fact that life
had changed since I moved away. People are now married, they have children, and
those are wonderful things, but the Boston I left is not the same Boston I
returned to.
Meanwhile, the life I knew in Chicago, the city I had called
my home for three years, was also evolving, certainly at a pace faster than I
anticipated, or was prepared for. I guess you could say I felt displaced. It
currently feels like I’m in a perpetual holding pattern; things are changing
all around me, but I’m just idling mid-air, waiting for some sort of signal
that it’s time to descend.
Maybe what I’m describing is depression, I’m honestly not
sure. That’s for another blog, another discussion. But it became clear to me
that working in customer service, listening to people bitch, and moan, and
gripe, and meander, and waste my fucking time was just not where I needed to be
at this point. And so I decided the weekend of June 21 that I just couldn’t do
it anymore. Not for five more weeks. Not for five more minutes. The time had
come. Monday morning I would tell them to take this job and shove it.
But first, I had to clean out my desk.
I thought I had the perfect plan. My schedule was 9 to 6. My
manager, who sat directly beside me, came it at 10am. I would sneak in, delete
some personal files off my computer, bag up all of my crap, and tell HR I was
leaving.
The commute to work was deliriously peaceful, or as peaceful
as life can be when shoved into a cramped subway car. The clouds in my brain
had parted for the time being, and I knew I was making the right decision. When
I got to the office and emerged from the elevator, each step was filled with
pride and determination. Until I saw him. My manager. Fuck, what was he doing
here so early?
All of a sudden that cool swagger morphed into dread. Each
step that had been light and dreamy was now a joyless thud. I know it probably
sounds childish, but I had no desire to talk to him about any of this. I had
made up my mind. And while I didn’t think he would try to lure me back into the
fold, the notion of listening to any of his platitudes was unacceptable. And I’d
be damned if I would have to endure one more fist-bump.
Luckily he was on the phone. Thank god. I quickly sat at my
desk, logged in, and started deleting anything personal. All around me I was
listening to my colleagues take calls. Noxious mash-ups of “I’m sorry” with “I
can definitely help you with that.” I had to get out of there.
I rummaged through my desk. Why did I have so many copies of
Entertainment Weekly? I barely even read the magazine anymore. Threw those into
my bag, along with whatever other junk I had accumulated.
I had to find one email and forward it to myself. I had
ordered an item using my company discount for a friend, and I wanted to have
the tracking information. Of course, it was Monday, so scrolling through the
pointless dribble that piles up over the weekend took some time. Fuck. He was
wrapping up his call. Where was that order confirmation email? I felt like
Sandra Bullock in The Net.
And then I found it, quickly forwarded it to my personal
email, and shut down my computer. I grabbed my bag full of useless magazines
and scurried away, before the manager had a chance to ask me about my stupid
weekend.
I had done it. Phase one complete. I took the steps up one
floor to where Human Resources sat. Oh, excuse me, Talent Management. That’s
what Company X called their HR department. How ridiculous is that?
Now, what you have to understand is that nobody sat in cubes
or offices at the company. It was all an open floor plan. I jetted over to a
white board marked “Talent Management” where a nice young girl sat. The whole
company was filled with nice young girls in their twenties. The kind that wear
cheap flimsy dresses and then cover themselves with blankets because they’re
cold in the AC.
Anyway, at this point I just wanted to make my final exit. I
looked at her and hurriedly asked, “Are you in HR?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“I’m leaving. I’d just like to ask a few questions about benefits.”
She looked a bit puzzled. “Oh, when did you give your
notice.”
“I’m not giving any notice. I’m leaving. Now.”
Again, this was an open floor plan. People started looking
over. The fact of the matter is that most people that work at Company X love
Company X, and this is probably a conversation they don’t hear often. Also, I
probably looked like a raving lunatic, holding a bag of magazines, a water
bottle, and sweating profusely. (Aside: That’s another thing that drove me nuts
about those girls and their blankets. They were always fucking cold when it was
unbearably hot in that office).
The young girl realized quickly she was dealing with a crazy
person. “Hmm, have you talked with your manager.”
“No. I have nothing to say to him.” I was feeling the
eyeballs and I was getting impatient. “Look, I just want to find out when my
benefits run out and I want to leave.” I was holding my employee badge, the one
that grants you access to the building, like a peace offering. Take it, dumb
girl. I just want to get the hell out of here.
She still seemed a bit startled. Like she had never run into
a rabid dog. First time for everything. “Um….”
Another gal, a bit older, hardened, was seated a few feet down. She was observing everything. “The conference room at the end of the
floor is open. Why don’t you guys go in there.”
Her tone was condescending, but she was providing some movement
in this operation, so I was pleased.
The young girl gathered her thoughts. She turned to me. “If
you want to meet me in there, I’ll be right in with resignation paperwork.”
And then I had to walk clear across the floor to this tiny
little conference room. Maybe everybody didn’t hear. I’m not sure. But it sure
felt like they did. I walked past the rows of blank stares like the proud bag
lady I was, ready for this journey to end.
What happened in the conference room is not terribly
interesting. I was told when my health benefits would run out – soon – and asked
to sign a non-disclosure. And then, tendering my badge, I left that conference
room with my tote of recycling and marched towards the stairs. It was done. Fait
accompli.
I walked out with my head held high, or as high as my head
ever gets, and haven’t looked back. Did I make the right decision? Yes. That
job was not for me. Now, I just have to figure out the right path to take. It’s
a road I’ve been traveling for the past 20 years. Sometimes it’s awfully
gravely. Sometimes it’s littered with pot holes and speed bumps. And then, every
now and then, there’s a nicely repaved section that stretches on for miles and miles.
