One of my coworkers keeps calling me a quitter. I pass by him in our little cube farm and he says, “Oh hey, quitter.” And then he laughs.
And I laugh too, because guess what? He’s right! I am a motherfucking quitter! I turned in my two weeks notice and I’m moving on up. I have a new job in a new place with new people and a new title with new responsibilities. I’ll drive on completely new streets to get there and home every day. New new new!
I’m feeling all of the usual new job feelings, I think. Excitement, worry, stress, anxiety, bittersweetness (Google Chrome is insisting “bittersweetness” is not a word but I am leaving it there because IT SHOULD TOTALLY BE A WORD), and maybe a little despondent because (spoiler) I’m not really good with change and tend to be a creature of habit. I’ve eaten a Wendy’s cheddar broccoli baked potato at lunchtime nearly every day for a month, for example. And I will continue doing so, because those cheesy potatoes are fucking delicious (but sometimes they mess up the broccoli:cheddar ratio and man, that is just the worst. The ratio should be 1:50 minimum. Are you taking notes, Dave Thomas?).
I’m going to miss my coworkers. I work with some cool people, even the aforementioned dude who keeps calling me a quitter. Even him! Because I have a big heart and I’m a proponent of forgiveness in the workplace.
Cheers to new beginnings!
Oh, and here’s a picture of my cat:
Does taking care of oneself require skill?
I’m asking for a friend, because she’s caught in this perpetual cycle of self-hatred and self-acceptance. Sometimes she wakes up and she looks in the mirror and she smiles at herself and thinks not bad kiddo and then an hour later, after she’s scarfed down two plates of waffles covered in whipped cream and chocolate sauce, she feels like life is no longer worth living.
She sits a lot. She’s sitting all day long, actually – in the car, at her desk, in the car again, on her couch, Indian-style on the floor while she dangles things in front of her cats. This is her life. A series of seats.
She smokes, too. She was in Canada two weekends ago and she bought a pack of cigarettes. Have you ever bought cigarettes in Canada? It’s terrifying shit. There was this giant picture of a grisly-looking eyeball on the cigarette pack with a scary-looking font yelling RISK OF BLINDNESS! at her. Undeterred (but maybe pissing herself a little bit, I can’t remember) she ripped open that pack of cigarettes and found the most horrible picture of a skinny bald person and the scary font yelling at her again: THIS IS WHAT DYING OF LUNG CANCER LOOKS LIKE.
So she lit up a cigarette to calm her nerves.
I don’t know if there’s any one skill she needs to work on that will fix her up and make her give a shit. I imagine some combination of work ethic and dedication would help, but those aren’t really skills so much as they are characteristics or personality traits – traits that she is sorely lacking.
Maybe I’ll tell her to wait it out, keep on keepin’ on or whatever, and hope that one day some revolutionary new medical procedures will be developed and a hot young state-of-the-art doctor will hook her up with a new pair of lungs and a new knee and, if there’s some sort of buy-two-get-one-free deal, a set of washboard abs?
Never say never.