**Disclaimer: Sorry mom and dad-I swear. But what’s important to remember here is that I love you. And granny pods aren’t free.**
You know, I used to think to myself “I wish I were just good at math.” Math seemed like the easiest means to an end. You are good at math, you go to college for math, you come out with a high paying math related job and automatically start out ahead of the rest of mathematically challenged friends. I’d look at the paychecks these guys would bring home and wish that numbers didn’t make me queasy (flashback to those timed multiplication tests I never fucking finished. Luckily I’ve never been in a situation where I had to finish a math problem quickly).
Math seemed like such an easy/guaranteed route to a life full of financial stability, vacations, kids with hoverboards, and weekly steak dinners. But-I suck at math. Actually, I am not good at anything that brings an easy/guaranteed paycheck. I want to pack my bags, hit the road, and figure it out along the way. You see, my mind tends to stray to the wild side of life (like the time I asked Nick if we could just live in a tiny house and travel the country very seriously over dinner some random Tuesday), but every now and then the serious side aims its arrow and pops my balloon. Brings me back down to earth, albeit kicking and screaming. Yeah, ok fine, I guess we don’t have the money to up and leave…whatever. But how do we make it so someday we do? A reliable 9-5 (so gross). So, even though it is the legitimate opposite of anything I ever wanted, I sat in a chair as an administrative assistant and hated every second of it. 1. There was zero creative outlet and 2. I fucking HATE being someone else’s bitch. I remember I would come home and complain to Nick “HE MADE ME FILL HIS STAPLER! THAT ASS!” and Nick, with a smirk would say “but babe that’s what he pays you to do.” Fuck….
Slowly but surely your square pegged ass gets really sick of being squeezed into a round hole. Like….so super tired of it. I once read that a creative minded person can quickly become depressed when not utilizing their creative mind enough (or at all). When you don’t exercise that shit, it gets flabby, and you can end up in a dark place. By the end (hopefully) of my corporate career, I could barely pull myself out of bed. I was in such a bad place, I would occasionally convince myself that the other option could be a viable alternative and I finally felt like I understood why some people made the choice. For me, my parents, sister, and husband always baited me earth side-but I’d be lying if a few times on my way to work it didn’t cross my mind. A pervert boss, a job I hated, hundreds of jobs applied for and passed over…I was over it all. My work would put me in such a bad mood, I would come home with no mental capacity to do the things I loved. I never wanted to write, or do anything for that matter. I’d eat dinner, sit on the couch, and count how many days until Saturday.
Some people aren’t hard-wired for the office 9-5. I am a creative person. When I am in a situation where I can write or craft, or just let my mind wander, I am elated. Feverish. Determined. Obsessed. So I guess this is where I should let yall know, I quit. And here I am. Writing and shit. For my job.
And it feels freakin great.
(582 words. Ya’ll welcome for the extras.)