Some bio: I’m a she. I’m…let’s say 36. No husband. Not dating. No kids. No pets. Would like a puppy and a pony one day. Love clean laundry.






Monday: decided to end the job search and drop out of my life for a while.
Tuesday: rented my condo.
Thursday: bought a ticket to London; found a condo to rent for a couple of months (but what if I hate it??).
Tuesday through Saturday: furiously pack (what am I forgetting? Who gives a shit).
Friday: late night out with some friends. Very late night. I’ll miss them I’ll e-mail they’ll visit I’ll be back soon.
Saturday: red eye out of O’Hare. Does Air Canada serve free drinks? I pray they do.

I have to finish packing, despite feeling like crap--it’s the devil drink. Have to pick up drycleaning. Passport. Credit cards. Moisturizer (eye, face, body, spf 45). And underpants. Lots and lots of underpants. Because you just never know.

I want to blog my current life. I need to be anonymous, so that no matter what I say about my former job, I can still find a job when I’m ready. A lot of this will be pure and utter fiction, so you’re fairly warned.

I’ll give a quick background, mostly because I’m so bored of talking about it. I was laid off from my job as an analyst at a “global major financial services firm” three months ago. One year, yes one year, severance package. I went from stressful, long hours, to being out on my butt. Like a fool, I immediately pulled myself up by my bootstraps and started hitting the electronic pavement, looking for a new gig.

I’ve been getting up early to stay in the work habit. Networking. Paying my bills on time. Working out. In other words, leading my same responsible, boring life, minus the job. This week I finally understood—I have a severance package. I’m not finding a new job anytime soon, and I don’t care—I have no interest in returning to my stressful career. I can do whatever I want for a few months.

On Monday I thought, I’ll go to London. Visit other places. I want to leave for awhile. For awhile, I can stop spending time with other unemployed friends, making dark jokes about falling out of the middle class, or about never finding another job. I can stop feeling bad about friends who’ve become more distant, because they’re freaked out about losing their own jobs. Unemployment feels like an infection to them. I imagine they worry that if we go out, they’ll have to pick up the bill (not true), and they wonder, if they do it once, will they have to do it every time they see me?

Away from home, I can distract myself. Stop waking up early each day. Stop sending out resumes. Start drinking like I’m on permanent vacation—because I am.

I just needed to rent out my condo. By Tuesday, I found an acquaintance who wanted a furnished place—he’s moving out of his boyfriend’s house. I thought it was a sign from God, but, that would be placing the decision on a higher power, when really, it’s just me bowing out of the job search for awhile.

What if I never want to go back to work? It worries me.