I'm Running Away

Why can't I be one of those people who hates their job, quits, sublets their apartment and moves to the shore for the summer? What's wrong with me?

I've tried only to admit to a select few people that my job blows. But I can't help it anymore. Every day is worse than the day before it. With each day, my boss's hairy lip-mole compounds in size, while her thread-bare stretch pants, tired from saddling up all of her post-childbirth fat, seem to get tighter and thinner. Her attitude, of course, remains the same level of intolerable.

There are only two people who allow me a moment's sanity during the day. Tampa, the love of my professional life, just quit and the only other good one is on his way out. And now I am terrified that I'm getting what I deserve with this place.

I was warned on more than a few occasions, that taking a job with this company would potentially be dire straights in the big-career-picture of my life. "It's AWFUL" people said. But who were they? They didn't know me. My goals. My capability. This was the perfect launching pad, I thought. (After a moment, week, of hesitation.) Though I couldn't possibly have known either way at the time, I just CAN'T ever listen to people. God forbid I take some advice. Or shut the eff up and just listen once in a while.

It isn't to say that I would've been better off remaining stagnant. It's become more clear with time-passing that my "friends" @ TR weren't actually on my side, and the party was much more of a sad facade than I'd ever realized. Though there are times that I can't believe it is all over, I have to say I'm better to be out of it. But while it lasted, it was one hell of a party.

Presently, as I've mentioned, I'm having a lot less fun. I come in at eight thirty, check my yahoo mail, Gothamist, do some gawker-stalking and then sign into some company software applications (so it appears that I'm working) until my counter-part, Tampa, shows up twenty minutes late and we depart for the cafeteria. Or "The Club" as it were.

Our cafeteria is much more a fashion show/dance party/acid flashback than an actual eating establishment. The walls are made up of color changing glass, (blue, to green to pink, to highlight "the different moods of the day" according to the memo) the windows are covered in smokey sheets of transparent drapery and the floor is the kind of shiny gray linoleum that makes you feel like you're filming the sequel to Gattica. It's like a spaceship down there.

Through trays and rows and stacks of every kind of food you can imagine (an omelet chef, organic peanut butters, yogurt, parfaits, a fresh fruit bar, espresso machine, carrafes of coffee) it's challenging to actually find someone who is eating. Despite this, my counterpart, fills up her plastic container with cottage cheese, eggs, fruit and a bagel. "I don't give a fuck," she says when I throw her the, "I can't believe you're eating in front of these people" look. I, myself, fill up the biggest coffee cup I can find. We spend 15minutes sifting half-heartedly through packets of splenda and stirrers and napkins until she seems satisfied to the point of turning on a heel and heading for the door. Then we have to make our way back through the anorexic, hungry little fashionistas lingering over the food that everyone knows they will never eat.

Tampa and I go over the events of the previous evening on our way back upstairs. The gym, the drinking, the boys, the bars. We laugh, and smile, and then we reach the third floor and beep ourselves back into the morgue where speaking is taboo, and all you have to show for a job well-done is a dirty look and the business end of a sliding glass door. We settle at our desks and begin emailing each other in desperate pleas for help.

"Wine after work? Or how bout just kill me?" etc.

Poor us. Her last day is Friday, and I know for certain that if I wasn't already serious about getting out of there, the departure will thrust me over the edge of what I deem to be tolerable. The club will be no fun, sipping coffee and making fun of the outfits by myself.

I want to be able to just tell them they're hideous and walk out the door to something better. The foreseeable problem here, is that I presently have nothing better to walk to. And even so, I don't know what I want to do.

In the mean time, I will try my best not to alienate the remaining friend I have, and look desperately for a better office environment in the meantime. And next summer, if my job still totally blows, I'm moving to the beach!