Today is my last day of work, and I’m a bundle of emotions. I’m excited and terrified and sad. Even though I know it’s time to move on, I’ve loved this place and these people. I’ve been safe and comfortable here.
When I tell people my plans, the most common response, especially from folks with a few years on me, is, “This is the time to do it.” I’m young enough, they say. I don’t have a house or kids. (Not fully true. TECHNICALLY, my name is still on a mortgage somewhere, and I thank Lady Jesus my ex-husband is the kind of financial Dudley Do-Right who can be trusted to make payments and preserve my precious baby credit score and all the capitalistic privilege that comes with it. Access to over 900 airport lounges worldwide? DON’T MIND IF I DO.)
People almost seem to believe that responsibilities just happen to you as you age. If I were 40 instead of 32, a condo would have befallen me by now. A child would have materialized with snot in its hair and chocolate-stained fingers clutching my stylish and full-pocketed pants (if I don’t have actual human-sized pockets on all my clothes within eight years, my life has gone horribly awry) as it begs for snacks. Probably a dog or chinchilla would be licking its butt nearby.
In some ways, I get it. Life is an accumulation of small decisions that often don’t feel like decisions at all. We’re just living our daily lives, dealing with problems as they arise, and one day we look around to the tune Talking Heads and wonder how did I get here?
Fear of that phenomenon is what keeps me future-focused. Maybe it’s unhealthy anxiety, but I have a habit of extrapolating my current life and choices to their long-term consequences, looking miles down the road and agonizing about what I see instead of living contentedly in the moment. It’s why I’m so quick to leave relationships and why I occasionally wake up on a Saturday morning and think, “Today I’m going to do x, y, and z, and tomorrow will be these other things, and then it will be Monday again, and another week will fly by, and before I know it, I’ll be back here doing this exact same thing next Saturday, and then it will be next year and nothing will have changed, and OH GOD WHERE IS MY LIFE GOING?”
I’m envious of people who can live without that kind of panic. They may envy my risk-taking in turn, but in reality, the risks I take are for survival. I have to make constant change because I’m too afraid of the longview to stay on any given trajectory for too long. In the early phases of something new, everything is cloudy, and you’re forced into a kind of present-mindedness. You can’t focus on the future because you have a million problems to solve right now, today. As soon as the dust settles enough to see a ways down the road, I’m haunted by visions of old age and a wasted life.
People keep saying, “Now’s the time,” and I smile in agreement while thinking, “I wish I could be like you.”
On my last day, I’m longing for the constitution of a person who stays, who can be counted on, who doesn’t need to flee. I’ll go into the office today and hug people I love. I’ll leave behind a perfectly pleasant team and a perfectly comfortable workspace to venture into a frightening unknown. I’ll do it because I have to.
I wish I knew how to stay.