Wednesday, August 23, 2006

"You mean Whitey McWhiteville?"

chickens on a plane
I'm back from Seattle! And if you were reading my last post, it practically took an intercession from God and all the angles and saints to get my fat ass and a rickety 757 into the air. I would vow never to fly American Airlines again if it weren't for the $300 voucher burning a hole in my pocket. Amsterdam here I come!

As expected, I was met with a small tidal wave of things to do once I got back to work. I warned my coworkers that I was (a) working off of five hours of sleep and (b) still on West Coast time. I even brandished my venti-ish cup of coffee for emphasis while missing my over-caffeinated halcyon days of double tall lattes at Moolicious. Ah, Seattle.

Wednesday was also the day that I was not looking forward to for other reasons. Wednesday was the day that I was supposed to tell my bosses that I was quitting. Instead I spent the day waiting for the "right moment" -- mainly the moment where I wasn't going to throw up from nerves and the moment where I didn't have a full audience. Why was I so nervous to quit a job I've been wanting to leave for the last year or so? Latent Catholic guilt? I know they're going to be fucked when I leave -- my three and a half work days in Seattle underscored this.

The problem with working yourself up over having to do something unpleasant is that most of the unpleasantness comes from the psychological build up. The day became like a Band-Aid that I was trying to psyche myself into ripping off -- the quicker you do it, the quicker the pain is. Instead I, like the masochist that I am, decided to strategize. That's where the the whole idea about the "right moment" came in. Okay, I'll do it at 11 am. Wait, maybe after lunch. No, my horoscope clearly says to wait till the moon moves into Virgo and that won't be until 3 pm. Yes! We have a plan!

So much for that plan. Multiple "right moments" came and went and I didn't have the balls to take advantage of them.

By 5:45 pm, my boss had gone. Still left with a Band-Aid of a problem, I decided to go for another tactic -- tell my remaining coworker knowing that telling him was like ripping up a corner of the Band-Aid. In other words, telling him was like a less scary preview of how things are going to go with my boss.

He displayed the proper shock and we talked a little about the situation. I felt really bad as he's handling a huge work load that won't get better when I leave. He agreed that I must tell my boss in person instead of via email (so much for the coward's way). This brings me back to tomorrow and the remaining Band-Aid -- I just need to rip the fucker off and nevermind the pain. Better to get it over with.

Oh, but I'd rather be a coward . . .

* * * Update * * *

I did it. Finally. It took nearly a full hour of psyching myself up and in the end I wasn't yelled at as I had irrationally feared. Instead I was warmly congratulated, reminded that that they were very happy with my work, and asked if there was an offer they could counter with. I said no thank you and that it was time for me to try something new. So there you go. The cat is out of the bag.

1 comment:

Dorothy Snarker said...

Congrats! Free at last, free at last. I keep waiting for “right moment” to ask my boss about my raise. That timing is even more delicate, because I still have to work with her afterward. Gulp.

p.s. If you REALLY want to experience Whitey McWhiteville, visit Portland.