A New Road

It's been about four months since I left work, and three since I wrote my last post on this blog. A lot has happened since we last spoke. I'll do my best to catch you up.

The original plan, you may remember, was for me to take a year off, cushioned by more than adequate savings, so I could focus on writing and taking care of the home. It was a solid plan on paper. Maybe in time, it would have yielded exciting, fulfilling fruit. We'll never know, because we kind of threw a wrench into it.

We bought a house last month.

Don't get me wrong: it was the right decision. It's a great house, and we got it for an unbelievably great price. Sometimes you have to strike while the iron is hot, so we did. We're both very excited with our choice, and we can't wait to move in!

But it's safe to say that this huge life decision has placed us on a completely different track than before. We live in Edmonton right now, but our new house is in Nova Scotia. We'll be embarking on a cross-country move before the year is over. That's no small task, and it's already completely disrupting a plan that was just finding its footing.

What I've Learned So Far

Now that a month has passed, I feel like I've finally wrapped my head around my new reality. The experience, so far, has been positive. I feel happy each day; more relaxed than before, but also more in tune with my own mind. The transition period is over, the noise has died down, and I can think clearly again. Not only that, but I'm making some surprising observations:

The New Normal

It's been nearly four weeks since I left my job, and I'm only now really settling into a routine. I spent the first week hanging out with my visiting brother, Mike. We had a great week, but the constant socializing and inadequate sleep wore me down more than I expected. It started with a sore throat, and by the time Mike left, I was deep in the throes of a nasty cold. I can't remember ever having a cold that bad, and it hung on throughout my second week and beyond.

The Sunday That Wasn't

I tend to keep an eye on the clock on Sundays. I do it most days, actually, but especially on Sundays. It's the transition day between weekend and week. It's time to snap back to adult mode. We try to cook a "real" meal (avoiding pre-packaged foods), since we have the time and energy. I wash dishes and prep lunch items (crackers, cheese, fruit, veggies, baked goods, whatever's going) and Kate does laundry. We prepare for the week ahead, and we go to bed at a reasonable hour.

For me, this Sunday has been a day of unreminding. Out of habit, I keep prompting myself to start thinking about work tomorrow (what I will wear, what I will take for lunch, what's waiting for me on my desk) and then I remember. Friday was my last day at work. There's nowhere I have to be tomorrow; not unless I decide to walk to H&W for some fresh produce.

For months now, I've known my job would end on April 8th. I knew there would be an adjustment period, but I had no idea how jarring the change would be. A weird feeling came over me Friday afternoon as I hugged my (former) coworkers and walked out the door, and I haven't been able to shake it off. I don't regret my decision, and part of me is already in excitement mode, but the rest of me is still trying to process the fact that this is all real. It's not some upcoming event that I'm waiting on. It's here.

Guest Post by Kate: From DINKs to OINKs

This Friday is the last day my wife will be at her current job. She does not have another job - as most people define it - lined up to begin on Monday. Or on any other day next week, or ever. My wife is going to be a writer, and a housewife. We have chosen to go from being double-income-no-kids to one-income-no-kids.

In this day and age, it's unthinkable to not be employed. I don't say unemployed. She left a job of her own volition. She could get another job. But we have decided to live on one income while she builds a writing career and takes care of our home. Even stay-at-home moms get a certain amount of grief these days. Doing anything except working the ol' 9 to 5 is seen as unacceptable; a luxury even, despite what you might be doing as unpaid labour. We both recognize that not everybody has the ability and freedom to do this. But we think it'd be stupid to squander the opportunity we have, just because others think we're acting "privileged".

We are privileged. So we are going to exercise our privilege.

Last Monday

It was hard to get up this morning. Kate (my diabetic wife) had spent the better part of two hours trying to fight off a persistent low blood sugar, which meant it was after midnight before we got to sleep. We both woke up feeling exhausted and defeated. It was not a great start to the work week.

It's been months since I've had anything resembling a normal workload at my job. It gets busy every now and then, but never for more than a day or so. I always find myself with time to kill, and it inevitably makes the days feel longer than they are.

When I arrived at work today, one of the ladies up front told me that our network was down. I shrugged and continued the graceless amble to my desk, devoting most of my energy to not dropping the breakfast sandwich and medium tea I was clumsily balancing. Once safely at my destination, I sat down in my chair, unwrapped the sandwich, and remembered how busy I had been on Friday.

The Trap

The cat's been out of the bag for almost two weeks now. I'm a quitter. And when I tell people, the first question they always come back with pertains to my plan.  Specifically, they want to know where I'll be working next.

Some ask: "Did you get something better?"  Some ask: "Are you staying in the industry?"  Some ask: "When do you start?" The underlying assumption is that I'm going to be working for a new company. New boss, new building, new salary. The idea that someone would leave one job without having another lined up simply doesn't compute with a lot of people.

I've done this before. Since my early twenties, I've been caught up in a strange habit. I would take a job, do it for a while, then quit. I always made sure I had some money saved up before quitting, but starting a new job right after ending the last one typically wasn't my way. I would quit, live off my savings for a few months, then start over at a new job.

This method has never impressed people. In fact, it's been seen as less acceptable the older I've gotten. But I can't seem to make it work any other way. When I finally quit a job, it's usually because I've hit rock bottom there. The novelty has long worn off, the work itself has drained my mental energy and killed my creative spark, and the relationships I've built aren't powerful enough to cancel out the rest of it. I need a hard reset. I need to remember who I am.

Notice

I handed in my resignation this week.

I've had many jobs over the years and I've quit them all, sometimes in less-than-professional ways (e.g. sending a cowardly email following exactly one day of work). Even on the few occasions where I gave proper notice, I hastily dropped my "I quit!" letter on the boss's chair and then scurried home, postponing the awkwardness to the next morning.

I'm 35 now, and I've been at my current job for nearly five years. A hit-and-run letter wasn't going to cut it this time. So I marched upstairs, closed the office door behind me, and asked my boss if he had a minute.  He did.

T-24

I have a small desk calendar at work. It's one of those triangular ones where you can see the same month on either side.  On the front, I've noted things like doctor's appointments and holidays and dates when coworkers won't be in.  But on the back, in secret, the countdown is on.

My last day of work will be April 8th. This date was chosen way back in December, when my wife Kate and I decided this would be the year to put our scary writing plan into action. On my first day back at work after the holidays, I uncapped my pen and, working backwards, I noted my "days left" on each square of the calendar. Yesterday's square told me I have 24 days left to spend at this job.

The Beginning

I'm still calling myself a writer.

Today at the salon, I told my stylist that I'm planning to focus more on my writing this year. 

"Oh, cool." she breezed. "What sort of stuff do you write?"

I stammered, racking my brain for an accurate answer. I eventually formed a couple of sentences: