closing time

every new beginning...

I cleared out my office at District Court out yesterday, taking all my personal stuff off the shelves and walls, emptying my desk drawers of the detritus of 25 years in the same work building. Pay stubs from 2000, reviews from 2006, some burnt CDs with games like Snood and Hoyle Solitaire on them from 1999. I put everything boxes, and those boxes in the trunk of my car, where they will stay until I decide to just shred and throw things out.

It’s a strange feeling to be wrapping up a job I had for 25 years. I don’t feel like it’s real. All I know is getting up and driving to work and sighing as I round the corner and see my building. I’ve been in this routine so long that finding another way of life seems daunting.

I started this job in 1998 when I worked part time while my youngest was in half day kindergarten. When he started first grade full time, I was offered a full time position myself. Telling myself “it’s just temporary until I can find a job doing something I love,” I took the offer. And now here I am 25 years later, retiring from a position I told myself I wouldn’t keep.

Today is my last day and I’m finding it daunting. This job was safe, it was secure. It provided me stability, it let me buy a house and feed and clothe my children. It allowed me to live a pretty comfortable life. While I didn’t always like my job, it was a comfort to me. As long as I was working, I could provide, I could feel productive, like I was contributing something to the world by helping the wheels of justice spin.

And now, by my own choice, that is all gone. Sure, I have a pension, but it’s not full and I’m not eligible for social security until next year. So there’s some anxiety, some sleepless nights wondering how I’m going to make this work. I wake up at 3am wondering if I did the right thing by retiring. The choice wasn’t entirely mine to make. Health issues have made me pull the plug on my career before I really wanted to. I know in my heart it’s time and I’m doing the right thing by focusing on taking care of myself, but it’s still scary and nerve wracking.

Well, you know what they say, every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end (ok, Semisonic said that), and I am ready to embark on that journey. For 25 years I worked at a job that required no creativity, no deep thinking. It made me feel stifled sometimes, that my skills could not be utilized in this job, and I spent a lot of time daydreaming about having a job that allows me to do that. I want to write. I want to write more often, and write better sentences and paragraphs and stories. I want to carve a path for myself where I am finally doing something I love. I am going to be a writer. I don’t know how I am going to do this; I’ve been out of the freelance loop for many years and I know that writing for online publications is an iffy kind of career choice now, but it’s time to put myself to the test and see what I can do.

I’m in the process of creating a website that will act as a writing portfolio. I am gathering information from freelance friends on the best places to pitch. I am relearning how to write a pitch. I have a notebook for all my story ideas. I am on this. Despite the nervousness and anxiety, I am excited to embark on a new career. Retirement doesn’t mean spending my days sitting on my porch in a rocking chair, though that sounds divine. I’m looking at it more as an opportunity to move forward, to better myself, to enjoy life a little more, to make use of the small talent I have.

I can look at this as ending, as closing a book after a long, arduous read and saying “well, glad that’s over.” Or I can look at it as a new chapter, one in which I turn the story around to be uplifting, exciting. I am a writer, and I am going to write the hell out of the coming chapters of my life. I hold the pen. I determine where the story is going. For the first time in a long time, I will have full control of my life. I will have no one to answer to but myself.

I’m thinking of all the other good things about retirement: waking up sick and being able to just roll over and go back to sleep. Waiting on a snowstorm without worrying about having to drive to work in it. Going to visit my sister in Rhode Island or my daughter in LA without having to worry about rushing back so I don’t run out of vacation days. Having more time to write and read. There’s so much relief wrapped up in this, and that relief will be so good for my mental health.

I’ll miss some of the people I work with, but I can’t think of much else I will miss. I will not miss that dull-eyed walk through the hallways where everyone nods at each other as they pass, as if to say, i’ve already said hello to you today. I will not miss the one ply toilet paper in the bathroom or the way it was either too hot or too cold in the building and never just write. I will not miss the commute, or the birds shitting on my care in the parking lot. I will not miss the work.

Today I will take the last few things out of my office. A desk lamp. A little plastic turtle that has been with me for at least ten years. The flowers that coworkers gave me this week. I will turn in my ID and parking pass, and make a tour of the building saying goodbye to everyone. I will glance at my office one last time, maybe sigh a little. Then all the judges I work for are taking me out to lunch. After lunch, I will head home, flush with the knowledge that I never have to go back to District Court ever again.

I’m going to make it. This is going to be great. I’m closing a door and opening several others that will lead to self fulfillment and the feeling that I am finally doing something I want to. At 61, I’ve reached my limit on living to work. I’ve reached my limit on doing what I’m told to do every day. Walking out of the building today will be the best thing I’ve done for myself in 25 years. I have to believe that.

So it’s closing time at the old office today. Goodbye, District Court. You’ve been mostly good to me. Now it’s time to be good to myself.