I feel squinty-eyed right now…like a rescued coal mining worker emerging from a tiny opening in the earth, after being trapped in a collapsed tunnel for 17 days. My body is sore, not from being cramped in a tiny, dark space but more from the inactivity of being chained to a desk (resulting in the dreaded “secretary spread”—those with desk jobs know what I mean). At this moment, I am bathed in the so-called “light at the end of tunnel” and although it blinds me a bit, I welcome the feeling with open arms. For the first time since I moved to Las Vegas in June, it’s not quite as hellish as it used to be.
“Hellish” is probably too strong a word—it seems insulting to those whose lives actually warrant that characterization. Nevertheless, I am still reeling from the move from Oakland, California to Las Vegas, away from my comfortable life, my good friends, my cheap rent—shouldn’t I be over it by now? As I write, inklings of my exit strategy are taking shape although it’ll be a few more months until I have solid action plan.
Not helping in my transition, my work life was swallowing me up whole. Do you remember Lily Tomlin in “The Incredible Shrinking Woman”? The image of tiny Lily trying to keep herself from being washed down the drain, swimming against the swirling current that wants to suck her into oblivion. I’m not sure if this was an actual scene in the movie or something I fabricated in my mind but I could relate to Lily on a visceral level. Work has not been the joy it used to be. I’ve been feeling exploited, like a sweat shop worker with a dental plan. I exaggerate again—I don’t mean to liken my work situation to that a third world garment worker, slumped over a sewing machine for 12 hours a day. My sewing machine was a Dell laptop and although I was slumped over it for literally days at a time, in the back of my mind I know I could walk away from the job and still be able to survive. Not so true for the millions who toil in sweat shops all around the world, I suspect.
Today, I did very little actual work work and I do not feel guilty at all. In my mind, it’s still not a fair trade for the life I sacrificed. Not to be melodramatic but life maintenance—my maintenance—took a backseat to work. I can’t help but wonder, Would my managers expect as much of a commitment from their married-with-kids workers? The single, female, no kids, no mortgage worker is my company’s favorite demographic. At sixteen months on the job, I am the second most senior employee in my department. The most senior employee started 2 months ahead of me. Do the words “burn out” mean anything?
I need to use this short respite to figure out what to do next, about me, about my life, about my future. Everything that was on hold has now been released from its stasis…and now I’m left to deal with the business of my life. I no longer have the distraction of work to keep me busy…from me. Yikes.
