The end is nigh

I quit my job this week.

Yes’m, that I did.

I quit my job.

After nearly two years of whining, grumbling, crying and all-out bitching about my job, I summoned every last ounce of courage to get back in the job hunt, deciding that this time, come hell or high water, I would find a way out of this long-decaying mess I’ve been in. And because this is my first time actually resigning from a company (termination on the grounds of failure to procure a work visa doesn’t count), it was a bit of a disconcerting experience for me.

First of all, I’ve been trying for so long to find a new job that when I finally did get one, I suddenly lost my footing on what I had to do after that. Accept immediately because it came from a company I genuinely wanted to join, or hold back and consider two other offers that had also come in because I actually had options this time? And when I did make a decision, I was on tenterhooks for a whole week after that because I was terrified the pre-employment reference check would give them the impression that I was not quite a normal human being and therefore not worth hiring after all.

Then, when the official Letter of Employment arrived, I went into slight fits of panic, thinking, If I sign this, it will be the end of my current job as I know it. I can’t turn back after I sign this. I will have to work at a whole new place with whole new people after I sign this. I will probably end up eating a whole chocolate Cornetto after I sign this. But then I closed my eyes and thought of what would be if I didn’t sign it, and that did it for me. So I signed. And didn’t eat a chocolate Cornetto.

After I sent my signature back to them, I started worrying about when I should tell my boss. The day was losing light and we were in tatters over the Annual Report; I was afraid he wouldn’t take it well. But then I figured it’s like announcing you’re getting promoted: people have to respond (somewhat) positively whether they like it or not and save the jealous tantrums for the privacy of their bedrooms. So I sat him down that very evening to present him with my resignation letter, and to my surprise, he took it rather well — except for a few sporadic instances of “Oh, shit.”

I QUIT MY JOB.

FINA-FUCKING-LLY.

And now that I’m left with 26 days, at the most, on this job, I’m catapulted between immense, overwhelming relief that the end of this phase of my life is nigh, and a serious case of nerves over entering a new phase, but recognizing also that it is a change that is long overdue. It feels quite surreal; when I first started this job I was 23 years old, quite literally fresh off the boat in the country with no clue about what it would be like to work here. And now I’m 26, knowing where I don’t and perhaps can fit in, and wanting completely different things. The most immediate and glaring effect is how much easier it is to walk along the longest, darkest tunnel once the first pinpoint of light appears.

Needless to say, the news of my resignation has already made it onto the office grapevine, the extensiveness of which I have not experienced since high school, and apparently it even has people calling each other to ask if Sandra really has resigned. So today, when somebody who had been privy to the grapevine asked what I really think about this job, I answered — and this is my official statement — “It’s like a Volvo. It’s not what you may have expected it to be, but you just hang on until the ride is over. And it has No Resale Value.”

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