Get Out of Jail Free card

Wikipedia defines “A Get Out of Jail Free card” as an element of the board game Monopoly which has become a popular metaphor for something that will get one out of an undesired situation.

Heard that!

Backing up, but only every so slightly, what I didn't say in my last post is that I’ve quit my job. They don’t know it yet, and I was afraid to come straight out with it in the previous “…write my life in pen..” blog post, because the responsible me thought if I wrote it outright, and somehow "the man" (my work) figured it out, that at the end of my medical leave I’ll be resigning my position, I'd be screwed.

Jo, my neighbor, helped me change my mind. She said something like, “Nah, they can’t touch you. You’re doing it by the book. Relax. Enjoy this.”

So, here is the correction: I’ve been screwed in that job. Now, that I’ve quit? Not so much. And that, my friends, is how you reshuffle life’s Monopoly deck and put the Get Out of Jail Free card on top.

There hasn’t been one day since I’ve made this decision, to store the life I’ve been living and start living another way, that I thought it was the wrong decision to make. Now, the packing, the getting together all the administrative details that are involved with moving one’s life from one state to another, oh that can take a flying flip.

Everything else involved with this decision, where this bold move feels like my own, cool, 1980s movie moment, is gelling quit nicely in my psyche. Err, wait... is it a Jerry Maguire moment that every one has now? Am I the crazy guy, like Jerry Maguire, who walks off his job with a new mission and takes the fish with him? (Go crazy! Get the fish!)

Whatever this is, I'm it. I’m picking me, sane or crazy. I have to admit, though, while there have been a lot of shitty jobs leading up to this last one, which have stacked themselves on top of life circumstances that have been culminating over the years, a more acute chain of events lead to my snapping point the day I quietly walked off the job.

The Wednesday after my father’s quadruple bypass surgery, shortly after I got called into that aforementioned, berating and impromptu meeting with Bitch #1 and the New Boss Man, is when I made my exit.

Minutes after that meeting, I had gone outside to call my sister, Lyn. I wanted to know how my father was doing. I wanted to know if they’d removed his breathing tube yet and if he was well enough to be transported out of the intensive critical care unit and into a regular room.

My sister, not comfortable with the sound of my voice asked, “You okay?” “Not really,” I said.

“Are you worried about dad?” “Yes,” I said, “But it’s not just that.”

“Is it your job again?” she asked. I didn’t answer, I just started crying.

“You need to get the hell out of there,” my sister ordered me. “Call your doctor. Get the medical leave note. Just get out of there. I can’t watch what this place is doing to you anymore. You need to move in with Jen like you’ve been talking about and finish your book and become your old self again.”

Up until that point, my sister has been standing back, watching and accepting my choices as I have continued to live the life of my making that hasn’t made me happy. Then, that Wednesday, when I was ready not to live that life any more, but, because I’d been so beaten down by my work, and had so much fear piled up in my life, and my sister knew I’d essentially become paralyzed, my big sister did what a big sister does. She basically ordered me to change my life. I’d needed that.

Immediately after I got off the phone with Lyn I called my doctor and got an appointment for 5:15 pm later that day. Then, I went back in for round 1 of my desk clearing. As I sat there in my uncomfortable office chair, surrounded by stacked paper and project binder piles, I asked myself What do I really need? I didn’t need anything, but I didn’t want any personal part of me to be left behind in that cube, so I took down the few pictures I had: The picture of me with my sister Lyn and all my friends on my 40th birthday and the shot of the Eiffel tower I took while I was on a European tour with my mom.

Then I went outside to call one of the few co-workers I’d become close with, a co-worker I’d made a promise to. She answered her cell after two rings. “Remember I told you that if I was ever to leave this place you’d be the first to know?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, tentatively.

“Well, you are the first to know. I’m leaving at lunch and I am not coming back.”

She wasn’t shocked. She’d known how they’d been treating everyone in the current budget climate. None of us could prove we were being used, abused, and harassed, or that some of us were slated for possible lay offs and being documented out. But, whether a theory is in play or is not, if all the components of that theory are in practice, and you are in a shitty situation, it doesn’t matter what the origin is. Shit is still shit no matter where the shit comes from, right?

Next I called my dear Ava, the one who has truly been a savior to me at work. Were it not for all of our walks under our trees, and all of our talks blowing off steam, I might not have kept what little sanity has remained. I can’t even remember my conversation with Ava. I just remember hanging up the phone and feeling a sense of calm, knowing Ava would always be in my life, she would always be a part of my spiritual sanity, reminding me that everything happens for a reason, and she would always be a friend, a true one.

What I hadn’t noticed, while I was outside on the phone with Ava, is that, because of a peaceable protest that was about to start, the entire building I worked in had gone on lock-down to keep the staff inside safe. Poetic I thought. Every entry/exit is now gated with bars and manned with a policeman. I feel like I am trying to break into Jail to get the remainder of my belongings from my desk and to get myself out of hell.

Turns out, clearing the rest of my desk was easy. I took one last look around, grabbed my personal work file, which had all my benefits information, performance reviews, and offer letters from both divisions in it, and I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t want that file, either, but I knew it would be necessary. Then, I left my desk exactly as it would be if I were returning after lunch, with the computer on and the work piles stacked about.

The same policeman, who questioned my employee status, just 20 minutes before to let me back into the building, informed me that I would need to show my staff ID if I wanted to re-enter the building. While he unlocked the barred gate to let me out, I said, “I won’t need my ID. I’m never coming back to this place again.”

Then, I thought: Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. They might think I’ve set off a bomb or something related to the protest and radio a cop to stop me in the parking lot.

But, aside from the one other person I told I was leaving, the guy in the office across from my cube, someone who is one of the most mild mannered and incredibly decent human beings on the face of the earth, no one seemed to care that the girl who was brought to tears from work 2-3 nights a week was leaving the building. Nope. With the exception of Ava, and a precious few other co-workers I’ve cherished, all the people who cared about me were on the other side of those bars.

All along all the people who have cared about me have been there, on the other end of phone lines, across restaurant dining tables, and in my living room or in theirs. So I called one of my ‘cares about me’ friends, Lyta. (You may recall Lyta, who, along with Jo, was a big part of getting me through the panic attack I wrote about in the post “Surrender” dated: Thursday, December 16, 2010.)

Don’t worry. Leaving the job didn’t spur another panic attack, quite the opposite. But, I did need to share my decision with someone. For two hours Lyta and I discussed how necessary the life adjustments I was beginning to make have been.

After my doctor’s appointment, I went to my neighbor Jo’s place to also share my news. Jo’s response was: “Good for you!” Jo has been there on so many days I’ve come home from work totally affected by the day and by the people.

(BTW, if you are trying to figure out who the hell Jo is, Jo is Jean, also from the December 16th “Surrender” post. Jo, however, thought the name Jean sucked. So, “Jo” it is. She’s right. Jo does fit her better. If I am going to choose a name that protects a friend’s identify/privacy, I’m all for them having a hand in it.

Anyway, since leaving work that Wednesday, I haven’t been back. I have had some stressed days, but not because I am questioning my decision. I don’t. Not one bit. But, responsible me, who knows that at the end of this medical leave I will need health insurance and a new less-stressful source of income, does need to have her voice heard. She needs to call attention to the fact that the stars need to continue to line up.

This is what I have to say to responsible me: The stars will align. Have faith. I’m already living more fully in my Now. Isn’t that as it should be?

I like Now. It’s a great place. The other day, when Jo was helping me with the mechanic drop off/pick up, to get my car road-ready for my long-haul move, we did a lot of asking: What would be fun Now?

First, getting a beer and splitting a burger at the 49er, a local dive bar famous for its legendary burgers, was fun. Next, hitting up another local institution, that was going to be fun.

So, we hopped over to Jo Josts, one of Long Beach’s oldest bars which used to be a barber shop. While we didn’t have one of the special pickled eggs Jo Josts is known for, we each did have a beer. Jo bought me a Jo Josts T-shirt. Now, I can take a little bit of the city I’ve lived in for the last 14 years with me. I’ll tell people Jo Josts is famous for serving up the coldest beer in Long Beach.

As you can see, and as it turns out, were this blog is concerned, I am not gone and I won’t be. I think I am going to need to keep up on posting this adventure I’ve started.

I will also need to keep up on this writing venue, this blog, a venue which has given me the freedom to not need to be perfect. This blog has taught me that I have something to share and until I get an editor, the occasional repeated word, where I start a sentence then rearrange my thought, that’s okay. When I get my editor for my book, the intermittent inscrutable series of words will disappear. Until then, I am just going to continue to do what I know how to do: Share my self and my voice.

Oh, since I am throwing all my shit in storage, and just bringing my bed, ¼ of my clothes, and my painting and writing supplies, I’m also bringing my beach cruiser. I don’t care if that’s impractical or if the side of my bike has a logo that reads: Point Beach when I am headed to the mountains. I am not moving to Colorado forever. I am starting my adventure there.

My bike is my Jerry Maguire office fish. I am starting a new life and the damn bike is coming with me. (I’m taking the fish.) I’m already imagining myself on my bike, ringing my bike bell, and getting looks from the neighbors wondering who the damn blondie is with the ridiculous California beach cruiser.

When I come back to get my stuff out of Long Beach storage, my plan is that it will be because my book is being published, or I am getting married, or I can afford to buy real estate (or all three).

If all of those plans work out, great. If other plans take me somewhere else, great, too. My only real plan is to never work so hard at doing something that I don’t love for people who don’t care about me again.

Life shouldn’t feel like a jail cell. It should feel fabulous, free, and without fear, and right now it does.