On Saturday, I gave notice to my boss. Catherine and I were out by Tyson's to see the Harry Potter movie and eat dinner with her family. My boss lives nearby, so I went over to deliver the news. There was a knot in my stomach composed of equal parts dread and pre-movie TGIFriday's quesadilla. The two vile substances tore at me as they intermingled, reminding me that I had already made one serious mistake that day, and could be on the verge of another.
Breaking the news went amazingly well. I was surprised. I've seen my boss's temper, although I've never been its target. But he said he understood and that I'd be welcomed back if I changed my mind. Work breakups don't go much more smoothly than that. I left; we went to dinner; everything seemed better. In fact, even today, back at this unending Navy project, things seem better. Which leads, of course, to second thoughts.
But I've got no serious reservations about my decision. So in two weeks I'll be starting at Exciting New Media Consultancy, Inc., which I won't name because Technorati would then deliver this blog to their inboxes within minutes. Not that I think its existence will remain a secret for more than a few hours into my tenure there — It's just that I intend to savor those hours.
Leaving this job is still still going to be a shock. I think I've got it figured out, financially speaking, but I'm not at ease about it. It's the only real job I've had since college; I've been here for three years and change. Sure, it was boring and getting boring-er, but I had a comfortable little rut dug for myself. The prospect of change is unsettling.
Last night I dreamt that I was riding my bike down some unknown street, when suddenly I spied the stolen bike that it had replaced. It was locked to a signpost. I dismounted and walked over, and held onto both of them. I called the police but couldn't get through — and what would I do if I had? I couldn't prove my ownership of the old bike, although I knew it was mine. I woke up before I figured out what to do.
I don't usually remember my dreams. When I do, their symbolism is usually completely incomprehensible, if it's there at all. If my subconscious is going to descend to analogies as prosaic as that one, it must really be worried.