Wednesday, April 20, 2011

How I Spent My Full-Year Vacation

For one year and 11 days, I have been a statistic. A statistic called out of work, unemployed, mad-as-hell-and-forced-to-take-it-evermore. And truthfully, it's been one of the best years of my life.

What have I done in my year off? I've rediscovered the real me: the me that's not bitchy and stressed out to the point of breaking.
I made Weight Watchers a top priority and lost about 60 pounds.


I joined a running/walking club and trained for my first marathon. I finished it, in a torrential downpour, in 7 hours, 15 minutes and 41 seconds.


I spent time in prayer, meditation, yoga and contemplation, thinking about who I am, who I want to be, what I want to embrace and how I want to change.

I took this blog off life support and started writing regularly again.

I joined an online dating site and began the arduous, humbling process of putting myself back out there.

I kept myself afloat financially and managed to pay all my bills on time.

So why am I telling you all this?

Because today, I am expecting a job offer. The CEO has already signified I'm his top choice, my references have been checked, the recruiter has already presented my salary demands. Today, I am having a second interview with the VP of Sales, and unless I cuss her out or sprout horns, I'm almost assured an offer letter.

And, unfortunately, rather than feeling elated, I'm feeling kinda sad.

It's not that I don't want to work. I do. (Something about watching Maury Povich say, "Terrell, in the matter of four-month-old Laqueesha, you ARE the father!" makes me want to go flip a burger, scrub a toilet, dig a ditch, write a white paper, anything to be employed again.)

So yes, I do want to go back to work. But I don't want to go back to the unhappy, out-of-hope, fat bitch I became over the course of my last few jobs.

I've made myself a promise.

I won't.

Even though my year-long vacation is (presumably) over, somehow I've got to hold fast to the real me and bring her back into the workplace without letting the workplace demolish the fragile, new, healthy life I've created.

I can't lie. I'm scared.

(I'll post in the comments when I find out for sure whether or not I've got the job. And then I'll start my next chapter, which I've tentatively entitled Slutapalooza.)

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