March 17 is coming to a close. Most people associate this date with St. Patrick’s Day. For those of you who do, I hope it was a good one. I, personally, don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, nor do I pretend to be Irish to make an excuse to
get wasted celebrate on this date. For me, March 17 is the anniversary of my first big girl job…the day job. I’ve held it for thirty-four years, and while that’s an accomplishment by some standards, for me it’s grown tiresome and depressing.
For the past couple of years I’ve been seeing the light at the end of the tunnel grow bigger and brighter, but my movement toward it is like running through a river of molasses in January. People say the last five years fly by. They haven’t been flying for me.
On the other hand, when I think about not having a day job I get a little freaked out. I’ve been getting up too early in the morning for too many years. What will happen if left to my own sleeping patterns? And my driving, will it suffer? I’m so used to driving in mental traffic it’s second nature to me. If I don’t drive through morning and afternoon rush hour will I turn into one of those people, scared to drive faster than forty miles per hour?
I don’t suppose I have to be concerned about those and other things just yet as I still have nearly two years before they’ll let me go with all of my benefits. Until that day I’ll continue to complain about not sleeping enough and get frustrated with people who don’t know the difference between merge and yield.
The weirdest thing about it? Today marked the beginning of my thirty-fifth year at the day job and I don’t even feel like I’m thirty-five years old much less have worked at one job that long.
I guess I’ll just keep plugging along and hope with all my heart they don’t decide to fire me ten minutes before I’m eligible to retire.