Let’s start at the beginning. The day I ended up in the emergency room because I had overworked myself on a project for a company I didn’t really like working at in the first place. This company had been home for six years and being a person who hated change or risk, I had clung on to my job regardless of the shit that came my way from it.
Back to the emergency room, my parents paced the floor (they were my emergency contacts) and my phone buzzed with my boss’s name on the screen. I knew why he was calling; the conversation we had prior to me collapsing at work, where he made it rain sexist shit, was undoubtedly making him a little nervous right now.
Out of habit I picked up the phone. Yes I knew he was worried, yes of course I was valued at the company. And yes, I know he didn’t mean it when he said I wasn’t getting the promotion I deserved. I agreed with everything he said and before I hung up I heard myself saying something I didn’t expect to…I quit.
He refused to accept it and insisted we discuss it in his office when I came back. Eventually I did go back, to hand in my official letter and to slam his door on my way out.
You see, I’m always the girl at the dinner table telling her girlfriends they were okay without men. That they should dump their worthless boyfriends and move on. The girl jumping at the opportunity of her girlfriend’s breakups to have a girls trip before they quickly nabbed the next guy. A few years ago, I had a rough break up. YEARS AGO. It only hit me now that the months had turned into years and me telling myself “it was okay to take my time” had long ago overrun its course.
I took a long hard look at myself. My body was a out of shape, my hair always tied up in a messy bun, makeup free all the time and okay with it because “with a killer personality like mine, who needed makeup?”
I was sick of being the girl who only cared about meetings and climbing the corporate ladder. Don’t get me wrong that’s a wonderful thing to be, but I was lonely and worried that I had gotten so deep into my comfort zone I wouldn’t know what a male reproductive part was if it smacked me in the face.
Which brings us to the second part of my story. After several weeks of contemplating life and the choices I made I decided it was time to pursue something else. Happiness, fun, and family were on the top of my list now. If I had to be honest, beneath my unkempt hair, and the minor fat rolls was a major hottie. I just needed to work to undo the damage I had caused myself in the past few years (aka letting myself go up a size, or two, because who’s going to see me naked anytime soon right?) Lucky for me, years of hard work and not going out had given me one advantage, lots and lots of cash in the bank for my “transformation” and all the fun I was planning on having.
It didn’t take more than a few weeks for another company to approach me, offering me twice what I made at my old job. They wined and dined me and I happily signed the contract reminding myself that while I should care about my job I shouldn’t turn it into my entire life again.
Now on to the delicious part. Mr. X.