resigning

I’m feeling a bit down today.

I’m sitting, Indian-style in my ergonomic Herman Miller chair, wrapped in a black pashmina, with a four-year-old sitting across my desk drawing me a good-bye picture. Olivia is here often enough that my tack-board is equal parts custom made kid art (three years’ worth) and assorted personal effects. She’s drawing, I’m typing my letter of resignation, pausing occasionally to admire her efforts. For the most part, no actual work will be done in this office for a few hours.

The thermostat says it’s 75 degrees in here, but I feel cold.

At lunch, I let it slip that I might be the slightest bit worried about being a complete screw-up at the new job and ending up unemployed on the streets of New York City.

“Zero percent chance,” Stephanie said. She made a big circle with her hands, then rearranged the Thai food on her plate. “Absolutely impossible.”

Michael said, “If you were stock, I’d invest in you.” And then he asked what I wanted for a house warming gift.

The heater is finally kicking in and I’m hoping that I’ll warm up a little.

I’m actually puzzled by this feeling that’s overtaken me today and hope it’s just from being a little tired. Though I am worried about my father again. And that may explain the pounding in my left temple.

But the heavy feeling in my chest, I don’t really know how to explain that one. Well, yes, I can. As a product of many, many moves in adolescence (five schools in six years), I know what this is, really. It’s separation anxiety. And it will pass. Especially since this is what I wanted and I know it’s the right thing to do (if there’s really any right or wrong to it).

Whatever, or whomever, I’m leaving behind will only be lost if I let it be.

Still, I feel so lonely right now, sitting here at my desk, chilled, waiting in limbo. I’ve got nothing to concentrate on other than this filmy melancholy I’ve drifted into. And this letter of resignation.