The World Turns on a Dime

I've only had three proper jobs in my entire adult life. The first I had for six years. The second I had for five. The third I will have had for just under eight months when I walk out the door June 28.

I'm a binge eater and by nature, I wait for choices to be forced upon me. I don't take stands. I still can't believe I walked in on Tuesday morning and quit.

I'm too tired and shell shocked to say much, other than that it was ugly. Serious Conde Nastiness. "I am hiding at Bon Appetit," I joked to a friend. "They have freshly baked stone fruit pies, and better yet, knives. And they know how to use them."

At one point one of the editors was so – for lack of a better word – mean to me I nearly pointed out that I only owe them two weeks' notice and I'm giving them four. They want a ridiculous amount of work out of me before I leave, and because I'm a people-pleaser, I'll probably give it to them.

People keep asking me if I feel relieved. I don't; I feel numb. I'm not sure if that's exhaustion, or post two huge binges (one a week ago yesterday; one yesterday), or what. I'm starting to wonder if I'm crazy.

And yet. And yet.

Last weekend I went with my neighbour to a tiny music venue down in the Bowery. Her friend was playing, but she wanted moral support in case her ex-boyfriend turned up. (He didn't.) I wasn't crazy about her friend's music, but I loved the woman he was sharing the stage with, and bought one of her albums.

I never listen to music in the office – much of what I do requires fairly ridiculous amounts of concentration (which is all the more ridiculous when you consider the subject matter). But on Tuesday after I quit I sat at my desk copyfitting and listening to the album, like the promise of a better life.