Tomorrow is the last day at my job, and then it is on to better things: away from commutes, office politics, cubicles, emails, eight hours a day, five days a week, 49 weeks a year (I was up to three weeks of vacation) of sitting at a desk in a building, where thousands of other people also sit at desks and periodically walk to the bathrooms and take elevators up and down and stand outside with cigarettes in their hands.
I have tidied my desk. I have created a spreadsheet explaining my ongoing projects. I have trained my replacement. I have compiled file folders of information that would be enough to assist a trained chimp through the next necessary steps of my job.
No one in the history of this company's existence has ever left on such good terms, with such tidy notes and easily understood explanations and instructions. Of this I am sure.
I came home yesterday with a large box of My Things -- photos, a calendar, a jacket, some paperwork -- and B somewhat jokingly says "So you're really doing this? You're really quitting?"
And every second of every day is filled with that question. I remember periodically throughout the day I am quitting my job to become a writer and my heart skips and I panic for a millisecond and then a warmth floods my chest and I smile.
Everyone I work with is being so kind that it almost makes me regret quitting -- almost. What touches me most is the people who get it. One woman said, I wish I had something like that, that I was that passionate about. And one woman said she regrets abandoning her dream of being a telenovela star in Mexico (laugh, but you just have to know her - she could have done it), and several others have said, Good for you, and I am pretty sure most of them meant it.
And a fair number of people think I've lost my marbles or are jealous.
Regardless, tomorrow is my last day at that job. Soon, the true test of my motivation will begin.