A month ago today was April 10, my 31st birthday. I’d partied (a little too hard) the previous weekend, taken the day off to celebrate with a little Me Time. You know, the usual: massage, lunch, mani/pedi and a little shopping. My day was filled with love from friends and family and countless Facebook and Twitter posts just because. Life was good.
I happily returned to work the next day. My inbox was filled with birthday wishes from coworkers along with an Outlook appointment to meet with my supervisors. To catch you up, two years ago, I transitioned into a new position at my job as a Resource Development Coordinator, which really means I do whatever my supervisor, the CEO, requests, including sitting in on board of directors and executive committee meetings. There was a board meeting going on at that very moment and thankfully, I didn’t have to attend.
Long story, short, in that meeting I was informed that I would no longer be employed as of May 31 due to budget cuts.
Happy belated birthday to me.
I didn’t say much. Gave a few nods, signed my agreement form and told my higher-ups that business is business. There were no hard feelings. Truthfully, there weren’t. I guess I saw it coming. After five years of doing a “whole lot of stuff” at this organization, being laid off was a gift in a way.
Why? Because I don’t like my job.
I don’t hate my coworkers, the fringe benefits or being paid a decent salary every two weeks, but I do hate the job itself. It has almost sucked the life out of me. I’ve read every “Signs You Need Another Job” story the Internet and magazines have to offer, and I fit the description of all of them. Recently, my mother asked me why I was dressing like a bum to go to work. There was a time when I lived in dresses, skirts and heels, even when I worked in a warehouse in my previous job. These days, I rock flats (ick), the same four or five pairs of slacks and cardigans with little to no fashion “umph” whatsoever. How tragic. I told her, “I guess I dress how I feel.”
This exact time last year, I was fresh off of a six-week medical leave. I didn’t want to come back. I was writing, making more contacts, doing what I wanted to do, and NOT going to work. I vowed to give it six months and then I’d kick the job search into full gear. Maybe apply for this fancy summer journalism course in New York City. A year later, I’m in the same position. Complacent and bored to tears.
That’s when God stepped in. He knew the only way to get me out of this place was by force. I’d gotten comfortable with my situation because I’m blessed and in this economic climate, people would kill to have my job, any job anyway. How I wish I could’ve secured a job on my own and turned in a two weeks notice, but it didn’t happen that way. I’m not mad nor ashamed because this 8-5 deal isn’t me. In fact, I’m happy. A weight has been lifted. Yes, I’m a little scared, but that’s normal and healthy.
I trust that God will help me find my way to bigger and better things. I figure, and I pray this will only come around in my life once, so I should take advantage while I have no attachments. I have skills that can bring in income. I write, teach school and facilitate trainings. It’s a running that joke between friends that I am a “Jamaican” or similar to “Tommy” on Martin. I’m always asked “What the hell do you do for a living?!”
Since April 11, I’ve wondered if I’ll be as happy as I think or will I become depressed. Turn the lights off, close my blinds and drown myself in microwavable dinners and wine? Or will I get up, get out and do something? I guess it’s time to show and prove.
So in short, life is still good, but this time around, I’m on the countdown. Twenty more days, and I’ll say farewell to my “old” life. Let’s see what happens next.