What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

I went to the train station today to buy tickets in anticipation of starting my commuting to Manhattan next week, and I came upon a short and stocky middle aged woman smoking a cigarette and mumbling to herself as she stood before the long wooden arms stopping pedestrians and cars from getting too close to the tracks. She was on the wrong side and wanted to cross over. She stared at them, clearly perplexed as to why they were down, for there was no train coming, only a train parked at the station and letting off passengers. As I walked up next to her, she looked up at me, and her eyes pleaded with me to tell her what to do.

I smiled as I walked by her and around the wooden barriers and past the snoozing train, confident that it would not jump out of its starting position since there were clearly still passengers entering and leaving it. When she saw me, her expression gave way to relief, and she looked cool and resolved as she followed suit.

You know that feeling of insecurity? Indecisiveness? The panic that strikes you immediately after making a decision and whispers in your head, �you made a mistake, you made a mistake, you made a mistake�� I have been experiencing the exact opposite of that since quitting my job. The last three weeks since leaving Satan�s kingdom have been some of the best of my life. I baked, I cleaned the house, I made candy apples and carved pumpkins, I slept in late and stayed up drinking and laughing late into the night, and I spent a lot of time reading by the back door while the two lazy cats in my lap watched the birds outside the window. I lived again, and I loved it. While I did some gross stuff, too, like studied for tomorrow�s actuarial exam, it was all made bearable by the simple fact that I could rest assured that each day would carry with it absolutely no risk of seeing Satan and his ridiculous minions. This is peace, to me.

I was simply lying when I emailed my new boss this morning and told her I was looking forward to starting my job next week. While I am glad that my new company will be completely Satan-free, reporting for an eight hour day of being an actuarial dork will never compare with sitting on my ever widening ass with a good book, a plate of cookies, a glass of wine or cup of coffee, and a purring kitten.

However, Monday I will wake up early, put on a stiff new shirt, and take the train to Manhattan with the 9 million other commuters. I will wander my way through the sounds of foreign languages and Brooklyn accents, the yellows of taxis whizzing by, and the smells of smoke and litter. I will wander towards my new company on Park Avenue, with its marble floors and impressive glass chandeliers gracing the entrance. I will shake my new boss�s hand and thank her for the opportunity she�s given me, and I will do my best to exert positive energy and excitement at the prospect of working cooped up in 5 x 5 cubicle for eight hours a day.

Don�t get me wrong, my gratitude is genuine, and my excitement will not have to be faked, for working in Manhattan is no small feat for a small-town Colorado boy, but let�s be honest. If given the choice, I�d choose househusbandry with just as much carefree confidence as when I walked past that woman this morning, and I�d leave my career at the side of the train tracks, wondering what it should do now.