I talked to a manager about a job recently. The position was a director role, which is the next step up for me. It sounded interesting on the web screen, but after speaking with the manager it became clear that the position was not something for me. The strange part is, once upon a time it was exactly the kind of thing I'd have gone for, it was the type of position that would have driven me.

The job involved acquiring companies on behalf of the parent company. It meant assessing the technical and strategic needs of said companies, determining business cases and evolution strategies, and then upon acquiring them being in place for an implementation project. As most of these companies are located in Europe, Asia, and the U.S. this would mean extensive travel and, where willing, the position involved staying in these areas for up to 6 months while completing the transaction.

And I am not interested.

It hit me after I hung up the phone. Standing in the garden I realized I needed to prop up my peonies. The lawn was scattered with dog toys and the sun was coming up over the apple tree. I tapped the outside of my mobile phone and looked around-this was my life now, not a hotel room on the other side of the world.

When I worked for Company X I fought hard and long for every project that came along. In the early days I was away three weeks out of every month and I liked it that way. I would have enough time to come home and confront my mountain of mails, to queue up my bills and water my long-dead plant. I would do my laundry and then I would leave again. I wouldn't have had it any other way, really.

After I moved to Sweden this largely continued, although the travel time went down. In Sweden it was one to two weeks per month of travel, and I logged in every damn night in order to check the pulse of what was happening. Back then I managed project managers and, as a project manager now, I can see I was so hands-on and such a control freak that I don't know how the other project managers didn't revolt and kill me.

But what I remember most was feeling like I was living in two worlds. I was doing what I had always wanted-I was traveling, I had masses of responsibility, and the stamps in both my CV and my passport were piling up. And yet somehow I can remember a distinct level of loneliness. I remember ringing my ex-husband and trying to talk to him. I would be wrapped in cloaks of meetings and travel weariness, I would be scented with a mixture of airplane carpet, mini-bar sealant and hotel soap. Time differences aside it was difficult for him to understand how I was, when there he was at home, bearing scents of the dog, the comfortable couch, a short commute home and a short glass of whiskey. His scents didn't match mine. Connecting on the phone was impossible. I couldn't make myself understood on his end, and he couldn't come across on mine. Even the many years ago when I loved Angus (when didn't I love Angus?) there was a seperation between where he was and where I was, the cotton sheets less soft for the distance.

I think you can't pop in and out of lives like that. You're either in it or you're not. You either are a part of the sunrise and sunset or you don't need to try to understand it.

I have long had a history of being a workaholic. 7 days a week, 365 days a year, no problem. According to my therapist the workaholic is part of my BPD, so this is yet another walk on the path to redemption. To be fair, the hard work has gotten me where I am today, perhaps at the expense of some years off my life. When I lost my job I was so unforgiving (and still am. I understand Company X is undergoing lay-offs as they've found their work force is 'too old' now, and seeing as they let people go based on years of service, I get that. They are now faced with a real problem. My response? Hahahahahahahahaha. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you.)

Then I collapsed that tree down and stopped. Work did not define me. Although my rocket-riding gerbil project has dictated long hours there are times that I still do not even do enough-I have days where I just reach a point that I just can't do anything more and I log off. This, too, is something new for me. I don't always work the super-long hours sometimes because I don't want to. Yes, there is work to be done but I have to live too. My soul has been given away piecemeal over the years, it's time I got it back now. I will absolutely do what I can for my project but it cannot own me.

I sniffed the air in my home. It smelt of lime pie and sunshine, of leaves of paper, peaches and puppy, a dash of old window frames and copper pipes. This is the smell that I love and the smell I am wearing. This is the smell that Angus wears as well, and our smells match. I can stretch out on the bed and tell him about my day and it's not through a phone.

My passport has stamps in it, so many that I had another extension put into it. My CV looks impressive. I have gotten to that point, I think, of that wherever I needed to be. I think about that position, the travel, the business cards with the impressive title I'd have, the responsibility and the prestige that comes with that type of job, the cut-throat high heels and the buttoned down cups of nasty coffee.

I think about it and I don't want any of it.

I want my job to be the kind where I can occasionally work from home in my pajamas. I want short commutes into London that end with me gratefully throwing open our large front door and being greeted by a wagging tail. I want a gin and tonic in our garden and the feel of my own computer chair. I want to stretch my body out next to Angus' in bed at night, our curves and hollows corresponding. I want to know that the meals I eat come from our hands in our kitchen and not through some translated menu with a work weary mind.

I do not pursue the position further. I am desperate to switch jobs but not desperate enough to lose the tender things that I love so much. I have changed, I am changing, and for that I am grateful. I want to smell like my home, perhaps because my home is where I am happiest.

There is no point jumping from worse to worse.

-H

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:01 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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