Two Week's Notice

This scenario plays out in my head over a billion times, it keeps me sane, it provides entertainment, it’s probably kept me at my job longer than I should have stayed: the fantasy of quitting.

Telling my boss to suck a fat one and walk out the door in a blaze of glory, to forever be remembered as the co-worker who literally told her boss to eat shit and slammed the door in her face. No matter how viciously delicious my quitting fantasies are, I have a professional reputation to up hold (ha!) and don’t want to burn bridges (no matter how shitty, crumbly those bridges might be)
 

I’ve been known to lose sleep about upsetting people, and isn’t quitting a job a sure sign that the person who signs your paycheck might hate you for leaving her? but I slept a solid 10 hours the night before I was to give the blessed news and only got the nervous stomach flip when I drove up to work (oh, have I not mentioned that our office is a converted old house and my personal office is an old bedroom? How’s that for professional?)

While my boss lady told me that we’d have off the day before Christmas (like that was our gift) I took a deep breath and told her I wouldn’t be here. My last day would be in two weeks because I’ve been offered an amazing opportunity to work in St Thomas.

“oh. Well. Isn’t that cool?” Boss lady's grim reaper’s grin spread across her face, like she was trying to hold in a lethal punch aimed right at my throat.

“Yep. Yes, it is really cool,” I replied. 

Boss lady picked up the phone to tell everyone via intercom, “Al-Stef-Jess-Market… Sarah! Sarah is leaving! That is all.” 

Next time, try not to sound too excited. and remember my name. 

So the quitting fantasy wasn't as spectacular as I had imagined, instead it was filled with a tense two weeks of my co-worker's whispering, "You're so lucky" and my boss lady giving a butt-out hug on my last day.

Take Me Back to the Start

I’m a big believer in signs.  When Coldplay’s “The Scientist” played on my Pandora station while I randomly looked at a friend’s photos of his life in the US Virgin Islands, I gave the big G-o-d a proverbial nod. Someone, somewhere was trying to tell me something. And I’m pretty sure it was “Quit your job, sell your car and move to St Thomas” so I am. 

I’m writing this from a job I will soon quit, a job that I like (mostly because my co-workers are just as inappropriate as I am and I can get away with almost anything in my own office) A job that a lot of people might give their left foot for (I write: I write emails, I write status updates, I write blogs, I write brochures on why our DJs would make your next corporate event a real party) but I’ve had this awesome voice inside my head quietly telling me each time I sat down at my double monitored desk “This isn’t it” Michael Jackson got it wrong. Even after living in Italy for a year and a half, I’m not done, there’s lingering need-for-adventure still coursing through my veins. An urging for the unknown, the uncertain. 

I’m not running from anything: there’s no heart-wrenching break up I’m reeling from, no family drama I’m trying to escape, no lawless activity that would warrant an escape to a tropical island. In fact, I’ve run away from these problems before and found them just hanging out on my new, foreign doorstep once the thrill of moving to a foreign country had faded. But that’s for my book, not this blog.