I’ve always hated this carpet.
It’s thin and rough, a disorienting zigzag of orange and brown lines that make me dizzy every time I happen to glance down. Once I spilled coffee on it just to disrupt that awful pattern. I really HATE this carpet. But at least it’s here.
Today is May 31st, 2012, and I’m exactly three months shy of my fourth anniversary with my job. Since I was 25 I’ve been employed with this agency, organizing events and managing clients and maintaining a bitter busy-ness. I went from struggling at temporary jobs after I was laid off to darting around town in a company car with one hand cemented to my iPhone and the other firmly wrapped around Starbucks’ latest. Despite the fancy (okay, by Oklahoma standards) lifestyle my career afforded, I felt increasingly restless over the past 18 months. My heart was ready to move on.
Sixteen days ago I submitted my letter of resignation. But today I am filling out my final timesheet and running photocopies of my resume alone.
No one else is here.
If I’m very honest with myself, I’m not surprised. Things at work have been strained for a while and although my boss eagerly offered a positive recommendation, I know he won’t miss me just as much as I won’t miss him. So I swallow past this strange pang of sadness and collect my coffee cups with only the buzz of flourescent lights as my company. And this is fine, I tell myself. I don’t come to work to make friends anyway. This is fine.
In the middle of my pity party it occurs to me that this is yet another in a series of reminders that my time here, in this beige-walled space and red dirt state, is over. Tomorrow holds a frantic last-minute apartment cleaning session before I lock my front door for the last time to start a new life up north. In 24 hours, nothing matters but the silvery road ahead of me, hiding speedbumps I can’t yet see.
I don’t even know how to get to New York City.