All the blood ran out of his face when my boss said they were putting me on a plan. It’s not the kind of plan you want to be put on. I became aware of my body language, uncrossed my arms, sat back, leaned forward, smiled.
I went back to my desk and pretended everything was normal, updated a deck and sent it with a cheery note, then cleared my calendar for the next couple hours, said I was sick, got in my vanpool van and headed south, not sure where I was going.
I stopped under a bridge in a congested area that leads to an industrial island and called my friend Steve, who had been through this before. We made plans for beer and advice after work.
And then I drove back to the parking garage at work and sat there in the dark, waiting to feel something but nothing came.
For a while now, I haven’t been happy at work. You can accept that to an extent, but it’s your line to draw for yourself. I said to my boss in my mid-year review, I don’t love it enough to be as good at it as I should be.
The guy who cuts my hair says it’s what I’ve wanted, and there’s something with my ego I have to understand and address, then move on.
So last night I made a southern variation on chicken pot pie, with bacon and frozen corn, and we finished the wine my friends brought for my birthday. Even with a slipped disc, I could still shake my rump to some Outkast while Dawn filmed it on her phone and the girls covered their faces in disgust.
I warmed the hot tub and after, we fell asleep watching a movie on the laptop in bed. I submitted two pieces to a writing contest, titled The World of Nameless Birds and How to Make Believe. My first attempts at publication, with a $1,000 prize. A year later, a better writer.
Post title inspired by Gene Clark song, The Strength of Strings, 1974.