The Proverbial Second Shoe

I lost my job on Friday. That sounds like such a strange turn of phrase, doesn’t it? Like it’s an ID card or a set of keys, something tangible that one could misplace. Perhaps it could have wiggled its way into a tear in a purse lining, or fallen through a hole in one’s pocket.

Because it just can’t get up and walk away, can it?

It can. While you are thinking about leaving, it can simply leave you.

And I had been thinking about leaving. For a long time. Without really thinking about it. No. Without really letting myself think about it. This is what I thought about: That the long days were exhausting, but I would get used to them. That it was a “challenge” working with The P of D, but I would rise above it. That maybe I was getting scut work now, but sooner or later, once I proved my value, that would change. That once my boss had her baby, her moods would be less mercurial. That as I learned the job and what was expected of me, I’d make fewer mistakes.

And then I came home on Wednesday, after leaving work at 4:30. My back had bothering me all week, since I’d aggravated my existing pain-in-the-ass problem the Saturday previous by taking a hillier walk than I was ready for. (It was a beautiful day and I wanted to go outside and have a nice walk through the woods like normal people, damn it.) So I spent most of Sunday in “commando rehab” mode (ice, walk, stretch; ice, walk, stretch) But like the woman who’d swallowed a fly in the old folk song, my physical dilemmas simply escalated. The pain caused me to miss work on Monday. Then came the fibro flare. Then came the tears. And as I was crying on Husband Wednesday evening, from the pain and the frustration of its seeming endlessness, a tiny voice floated into my head. Ringing as clear as silver fork tine tapping a crystal goblet.

It said, “Your job is making you miserable. You are not appreciated. Not once have you heard the words ‘thank you,’ in the whole three months you’ve been there.”

My, those voices can be chatty once they get going, can’t they?

I told Husband. And he said, “So look for another job. I mean, while you still have this one.”

And I nodded. It made sense. But somehow it felt like quitting. And the tiny flame of Wonder Woman I keep trying to keep in check hates to quit.

Then I went to work on Thursday. I was improving physically, through the healing powers of time and also knowing that that afternoon I was finally, finally having my PT appointment. Even if sometimes the cure is worse than the disease, just knowing that I’ll soon be in good hands can make me feel a little better.

And then my boss asked to see me before I left.

Which is never good. When I came in she asked me to take a seat at her conference table. Which is also never good.

She asked how I thought I was doing. This is code which, for anyone who has worked for other people for enough years of their adult life knows, means you’re about to get your ass canned but I’m giving you a token shot to explain yourself.

I mentioned some of my concerns. The communication problems, the steep learning curve problems, the inheriting-a-project-that-was-a-huge-fucking-mess problems, the personnel problems. And never once did I blame anyone else for my own mistakes (Thinking maybe this would buy me some stand-up-guy points. And it also seemed like the right thing to do.)

Because, goddamn it, I couldn’t be fired again. Not twice it one year. I didn’t know if I could handle it. (I know, Highlander, you’re snorting and about to call me a rank amateur. But I bet your first half-dozen or so weren’t so easy.)

Anyway, nothing I said mattered.

I wasn’t working out, she said. I had disappointed her. Anyone with 20 years’ experience shouldn’t be making so many mistakes. And she detailed every one and how much it cost the company. She needed someone more dependable and who could work full time, so she wouldn’t have to worry when she went out on maternity leave.

In my defense (which I thought but wouldn’t dare say), she did NOT tell me she was pregnant when she hired me (she wasn’t showing yet). If I’d known, perhaps I wouldn’t have taken the job. Been there, done that, and my chiropractor earned a lot of money for it. And I’d told her when I started that I could only work part time until my doctor cleared me for more.

But as I’m sitting there absorbing each blow (and drawing up every ounce of strength in my body not to cry) I’m also thinking, “I can’t be fired again. I can’t be fired again.”

“I know I can do better,” I said. “If you give me another chance to prove myself.”

I didn’t regret the words then. Wonder Woman was sitting on my chest holding her hand over my mouth.

She thought for a moment, uncertainty in her eyes. When she finally spoke, it was to give me another week. But that was the best she could do, she said. She had to make personnel decisions and she had to make them fast.

And at PT, Tom was his usual upbeat, supportive self. “If you don’t like the job anyway, just go back in Monday and quit. Leave with your pride intact.”

But I wasn’t a quitter.

I called my stepmother Gladys that evening and told her what happened. I told her I’d asked for the week extension. She listened, and there was a pause (I imagine she was taking a deep breath) and said, “But is that what you really want?”

I think I said yes. No. Maybe I said I just wanted to quit.

She suggested I check about the unemployment situation first. Just to be practical. (because in New York, you’re only eligible for unemployment if you are involuntarily terminated)

And later that night the voice said…no, it screamed, “GET OUT.”

That morning I found out that I was still eligible for seven and a half weeks of unemployment at my old rate from earlier that year…which was more than I was making at my soon-not–to-be-current part-time job. And with a little coaching from an acquaintance of my mother’s, who used to be an employment specialist, I had all the ammunition and politically correct lingo I needed.

And then I drove to my soon-to-be-ex-office, picked up my week’s check, and told my boss that I decided to simply accept termination. And in return for making this easy on her (code for: I won’t ask for severance or sue your ass for firing me for health reasons) and giving her as much time as possible to find someone new, could we agree on the reason for my job separation – basically, not that I fucked up, but the requirements of the job had changed. And put it in writing.

And she agreed.

And with P of D gloating from behind his latte, I left. Without tears. With my head high. Feeling somehow that I wasn’t fired, that I wasn’t quitting, but I had chosen to leave.

I felt…not like crying, although I had a box of tissues on my front seat just in case. I felt like doing something celebratory and defiant. Like getting stinky drunk. But on my current medications, I’d probably go into a coma. I knew that I’d run through the usual gamut of emotions soon enough, but in that moment, I just did a few ordinary things. I went to the credit union, because the money needed to go into my account. Then I went to the grocery store, because I was out of oatmeal.

After all, there would still be a tomorrow, and I’d need something for breakfast.