After almost exactly four years in one place (and, if I am to have a place where I go during the day to pay the bills so I can write, I always knew that place was not the right place), I have left my job. Four years almost to the day—my last day was June 1 and my four-year anniversary would have been June 2. Serendipitous? Random and barely interesting? Just plain funny? It depends on my mood.
I have been told there is still time to change my mind. Next week, if I don’t like it, I can come back. I am not changing my mind. I will like it.
My boss’s comment on the farewell card that routed around the office in one of our infamous hot-hot red folders (and when everything routes in a red folder, the red folders become meaningless) was straight and to the point:
Still in denial.
As for me: I am excited for Monday. I can’t wait to start. I wonder what books I’ll get to work on. I wonder what coffee shop I’ll pick to write in early mornings before work (I’ve decided to see if I can find a good one close to the office; I’ll be doing a tour after work one night this week). I wonder what the people will be like. I wonder if I’ll take advantage of how close MoMa is and how close Central Park is and I think I’ll be happy there, I really do, I just feel it. There’s no denying that.