My plane stopped at the gate. Passengers were standing up to retrieve their belongs. I remained seated in the back of the plane, waiting for the others to disembark, before exiting. A man walked over and sat across the aisle, and leaned towards me.

“I’m Clay.”

“Claaaay,” I repeat and my voice trails off

“We went to college together. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name…But it has been ten years.”

I remembered him the moment he introduced himself. We exchanged pleasantries. He’s working as a professional songwriter. One of his tracks was nominated for a Grammy a few years ago. He was an exceptional painter when we were in college. It was evident the painter was dueling with the musician. I always wondered which talent would prevail.

Finally, he asked the inevitable, “What are you doing now?”

********************

Two years have passed since I left my job, and I am still clueless about what I am doing. Beneath it all, I feel a pang of guilt admitting I do not work. For eight years, I gave my all. I researched new technology, and accepted trial by fire projects with tight deadlines. I thought the work I was contributing really mattered, but in the end, it only mattered to me.

The harder I worked, the less information I received from coworkers. The longer the hours, the higher the expectations. Towards the end, I did other’s jobs in addition to my own. When I asked my supervisor what kind of future I could expect, he gave me a tiny raise, but no answer. My attitude became atrocious; can do quickly evolved into fuck you.

Two days before I quit, I totally lost my shit. I have a temper, but it usually doesn’t show until I’ve had my fill of B.S. After I lose it once, I loose it more frequently before I beat my temper into submission, where it remains for months. I don’t like to get that angry it indicates a lack of self-control.

Ironically, when I lost it wasn’t at my job. The straw was a repair bill for my vehicle. I reviewed the receipt, at home. The more I studied it, the angrier I got. Rather than take the reasonable course of action and go to the repair shop to chew the manager a new asshole, I walked to Big Bertha and gave her a proper ass whipping. I neglected to wrap my hands. When I finished, I emerged with seven bloody knuckles.

I returned to work the following day with extra long sleeves. I had been holding on to my sanity by my fingernails for months. I hid a letter of resignation under my keyboard earlier in case of emergency. I had removed most of my personal effects from my office. The only two remaining, my worry rock and my coffee cup.

I had an epiphany when I was staring at a stack of job folders. In that moment, I realized I had used every resource in my power to transform that experience into a job worth keeping. I knew there was nothing left in my toy chest to change my circumstances.

I picked up the worry rock, coffee cup and brief case. I walked by the V.P.’s, desk conveniently while he was on the phone, and said “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore”. He followed me out and I surrendered my office key. He asked me to reconsider, and I responded with the unthinkable. The truth. I told him, he didn’t need me, he needed the others in my position to do their part instead of screwing around.

I still haven’t forgiven myself for walking away without proper notice. Giving up. Two years have passed. I suppose it is forgotten by all, except me. I’m fiercely loyal, but that job broke me. I could never overcome the constraints of a family-owned-nepotism-favored-females-are-inferior-what-do-you-mean-you-don’t-embrace-our-religion-of-choice-let’s-discriminate-against-minorites-and-customers-who-market-stuff-we-find-deplorable-though-not-ilegal.

Why can’t i forgive myself for escaping a bad situation? Why can’t allow myself the privilege of enjoying the fruits of the Mister’s good luck (his words, not mine). I AM lucky. I have the privilege of staying home and being a woman of leisure. I’m not a woman of inaction.

********************
It’s times like these that I better understand impotence. Who knew I would allow a job, even a shitty job, to define my self worth. I thought I was more mature than that.

********************

When I ran into Clay it was surreal. Not because I had not seen him in ten years, but the quality in his voice. Strangely, it felt like an intervention. His voice had a genuine peaceful quality about it. I can’t explain why, only that it did.