Back to My Old Self

I’ve never been happier for the start of a new month. In case you missed it, July sucked cold rocks in the desert at night (which is to say, it really and truly sucked). The move was a nightmare—no thanks to the worlds’ worst moving company and a new home that was no where near move-in ready—and I spent the first week here suffering through a heat wave with no AC. Add in passing out in public and an allergic reaction of unknown cause (the mostly likely culprit is peanut butter, a personal loss almost too great to contemplate) and I say strongly that T.S. Eliot got it wrong: July is the cruelest month.  At least it was this year. I would say that everything that could possibly go wrong did, except I need to add that several things went wrong that seemed beyond the realm of possibility.

 

But now it’s August. And even though I woke up with a headache, I practically skipped over to the calendar, thrilled that I could finally turn the page. It’s a beautifully sunshine-filled day, brimming with potential. Today is the day that the over-the-top optimism of June will return.  It has to; I don’t think I could take another July.

I Blame the Bureaucracy

Like so many moves before this one, I’ve been in the midst of the minutia.  Utilities and boxes and whatnot.  Yesterday was set to be my favorite kind of day: productive.  I had a late breakfast around 10:30, then headed out to donate blood.  After donating, I ate a cookie and drank an extra bottle of water, then headed on my way.  First stop was city hall to pay the excise tax on my car (is it just me, or does excise tax sound like something over which our entire nation revolted?).

 

The next stop was the DMV (or rather, the BMV since Maine likes to do things differently).  If all went according to plan, I could register my car, get a license, and register to vote.  I took a number and it only took a moment to realize that I would be there for a while; my number was 174 and they called 125 shortly after I arrived.  Thank heaven for a smart phone.  I killed nearly an hour reading Facebook updates and catching up on Words With Friends.  I considered going home and trying another time, but the longer I stayed the more I felt I had to stay.  I ransacked my purse and found my emergency granola bar.

 

My number was called around 3:30—nearly two hours after I arrived—and I raced to the window the second I heard it.  We took care of the registration first and then the license.  I wrote him a check, then started to write my new license number on my voter registration form.  But as I did so, my head began to spin.  And I had the sudden overwhelming feeling that I was going to vomit.  I was so close to leaving this land of limbo—I knew I just had to hold on for a couple more minutes but I wasn’t sure I could.  I put my head in my hands and the clerk asked me if I was alright.  I told him that I really wasn’t feeling well.  (You know it’s bad if I’m being that honest with a stranger.)  He continued processing my paperwork then asked me again if I was okay.  I answered, “No.”  He started to come around the counter and the next thing I knew I was on the floor with four or five strangers around me, and the BMV clerk was offering to call an ambulance. 

 

I have no recollection of how I went from standing to sitting but I heard later that the clerk and another customer caught me.  When I came to, a lovely woman named Paige was rubbing my back and giving me Vitamin Water.  A few minutes later I realized that I was drinking from someone else’s bottle, and I didn’t even care.  Paige assured me that I had no need to be embarrassed because we’ve all been there.  As nice as she was, I’ve got to wonder what her experience has been like.  Several people jokingly asked the clerk what he did to me, while a customer informed me I had made his wait much more interesting.  A supervisor from the BMV insisted on bringing me cookies and again asked if I needed an ambulance.  After sitting on the floor for five minutes, then in a chair for another ten, I went to have my picture taken.  I really shouldn’t have been surprised that it’s the absolute worst picture I’ve ever seen of myself, but at least this time there’s an excuse and perhaps in time it will turn into an amusing memory.

 

If you’re looking for a moral to this story, I offer:

• When donating blood, it’s a good idea to eat lunch.
• In a heat wave, it’s a good idea to stay hydrated.
• And finally, if you’re going to pass out in public, it’s a good idea to do it in Maine.

Resurfacing

Since I’m being all bossy you won’t be surprised when I tell you to read part 1 and part 2 before reading this final installment in the trilogy. Don’t worry, I won’t come back in 20 years and add a bunch of prequels.

 

As my doubts about teaching grew, I started reconsidering life in the corporate world. I wasn’t completely against it but I wasn’t feeling sure that it was right either. Late one night (and yes, I tend to make major life decisions when I’m overtired and world-weary) I indulged a whim and changed the address on my resume, testing a theory. Less than a week later, I received a request to interview for a position in Maine. I was giddy with excitement, even though the HR contact warned me they would be moving very slowly (she was telling the truth).

 

At the end of May I woke up one morning and indulged in one of my bad habits: reading email in bed before doing anything else. But I woke up quickly; there was an email from another company in Maine asking about my availability for an interview, with a seemingly-innocuous question at the end: “And just to clarify, you now live in Portland . . . ?” Without meaning to or realizing it, a very pleasant HR professional forced my hand. Still in bed, I went round and round in my head about how best to answer. And then the light bulb came on: I should just decide to move to Maine and answer truthfully that I’m in the process of moving. Which is exactly what I did. As luck would have it, my lease ends on June 30. And everything else fell into place as simply as that, as though something in the cosmos was waiting for me to come to this decision.

 

My feelings about leaving NYC are similar to my feelings about leaving Orange County: I can absolutely see myself coming back here quite happily. Even with a year dedicated largely to getting the most out of this city, I’m still just scratching the surface. But as amazing as this city is, I’m thrilled to finally be heading home.

Splashing Down

If you haven’t already, read my previous post for part 1 of this saga.

 

Some friends didn’t believe that I didn’t have a plan in mind when I left my job, but I really didn’t. I spent most of last fall consumed with research: attending information sessions, talking to people about their careers and passions, and spending more time on Google than anyone can consider healthy. Within about two months I was thinking seriously about teaching. When I was younger I’d always planned on teaching.  And I’ve loved the times I’ve conducted training in the corporate world. I began volunteering as an SAT tutor, and my time in the classroom was just as fulfilling as I had imagined.

 

I visited every grad school in Manhattan and started pulling transcripts together. Then a dear friend recommended I look into New York City Teaching Fellows (NYCTF), an alternative certification program. It was a perfect fit. In the summer I would begin training, complete my student teaching, and enroll in a (generously subsidized) master’s program. In September I would be teaching in my very own classroom.

 

The application process was more intense than getting into college but, at the beginning of this year, I was accepted to become a secondary math teacher. But the closer it got to the beginning of training, the less sure I became that this was the right path for me. Corporate training and tutoring were great, but those students wanted to be there. And they already had their basic needs met. Neither of those things would always be the case for the students I would encounter in a high-needs NYC classroom. It just didn’t feel the way I wanted or expected it to. And so, two weeks before training was scheduled to start, I dropped out.

Jumping off the High Dive

"Let's recap: Because a hockey player's kid made me feel like a superficial jerk. I ate two slices of bad pizza, went to bed and grew a conscience." –Jerry Maguire

No, that’s not exactly how it happened for me, but the emotions were similar. Last June I had the sudden unnerving sensation that I was on the wrong track. My career was taking me away from fulfillment instead of toward it. My immediate impulse was to update my resume, work my network, and make a move. And I started down that path. But in a brief, blinding moment of sanity, I took a breath. The last two job moves I’d made had been big and hasty. And in hindsight, neither of those moves had been exactly right. So, I took another breath and realized that was what I needed: to breathe. For a good, long time. Then I did the bravest craziest smartest stupidest most freeing thing I’ve ever done: I left my job in order to do nothing. Which left me feeling a lot like Hugh Grant’s character in About a Boy.

This is my 48th week of not being burdened with employment. When I left work, there was a thought deep in my subconscious that I would become bored within about three months. But that didn't happen. Most weeks I've been so busy that I wasn't sure I would have had time for a job if I'd wanted one. With so much going on, you'd think I'd write a blog post or two, right? Part of me wanted to. But I didn't want to put this online until I knew how the story would end. The fact that this post is here, means I know now. And I never saw it coming.