As I was lying on the massage table I started musing on a conversation I had today when I mentioned to someone that I used to be on a senior management team.
I had to pause at the time and try to remember the words in the right order. Then I had to shake my head and blink a few times to check whether I wasn’t remembering something from a past life or from a film I watched a few years ago.
Then I had a sudden flash back to senior management team meetings – the image contained a still life of lots of biscuits, a lot of eyeball rolling, snickering and grinding of teeth – but not much on the detail of the actual job. It’s all so fuzzy. A bit like memories of childbirth become after time. Except about a year after giving birth you start forgetting the fact you almost split open and died whilst half the world looked up your jacksie and think what a marvelous idea it would be go through it all again.
But let me tell you now, with employment the memories don’t fade, you don’t start getting sentimental over excel spreadsheets, funding applications and performance reviews and start thinking what a great idea it would be to have just one more job, just the one, because it isn’t very fair on your first job if it doesn’t get to have someone to play with and because your first job was a girl and you’d really like the second one to be a boy because one of each would be lovely. No none of that.
I’ve now calculated that it was almost a year ago to the day that I left my job. I feel like this deserves celebrating. I’m sure everyone I used to manage thinks it deserves celebrating as well.
Ok, so I’m not really unemployed. I do write everyday. But that’s not really a job. It’s never a chore. I can do it when I want. I can, if I choose decide that for a week all I’m going to do is watch Buffy, surf the net for pictures of male models aged 19, read Lainey Gossip and bury my nose in young adult books. And I can call it research. And most importantly I can’t get fired for it.
My office is my desk next to the balcony. I can play on facebook as much as I want without having to do a quick ‘control+N’ every time someone walks by. I can work in my bikini. I can play music until the house shakes and I can dance around every time I get bored. Or just download the latest episode of Misfits and watch that.
So if you’re out there and you’re wondering whether working in an office for the rest of your life is it, or you have an inkling that you could move to somewhere hot and figure out a way of making money that doesn’t require sitting in a management team meeting trying to look like you care about spending reviews, then remember the power of saying Fuck it.
That’s all I did. And somehow I ended up here.
So go say it to your boss. And see where you end up.
But if where you end up happens to be unemployed, penniless with no reference from your ex-boss then err, don’t blame me.