So I quit my job today. And I found out that apparently Elton is earning a lot more than I thought. Or rather, I knew he was earning that amount, but I never fully grasped it until someone else pointed it out.
I didn't exactly go to work today with my letter all typed and my tu-lan-ness maxed out, ready for a dramatic hurling down of the envelope with a brazen declaration on my lips. I like the people enough that the two words would've been "I quit", rather than "fuck you", but it didn't matter, because it didn't work out that way anyway.
What did happen was a sit-down with my editors, meant more to prepare me for the upcoming appraisal meeting with the even bigger boss. And when they asked how I felt about working there, I figured that was about as good an opportunity as any to break the not-so-surprising news. The signs were all there. I'd already come very close to it a while back. I guess it just took me a while to come to terms with the fact that it just wasn't working out for me.
What do you do when you realise you're eyeball deep in shit with your mouth wide open? Do you try to get used to the situation or do you get out? Does it help when you look around and there are other people who you like in the exact same situation? I'm not saying that I was alone in my situation. Hell, I got the least of it, in a sense, since I was the newest member. But I look around for the more established members of the team and they've disappeared deep into the muck a long time ago. I just don't want that life. I envy them their passion, their sense of purpose, their commitment, and I know I lack all those things, and those qualities don't develop; they start off at a certain level and slowly wear away with each rewrite.
The truth is, working in the magazine industry is tough. It's a subjective business with erratic (read: long) hours and an unspoken deference to the wishes of our advertisers. It's especially tough in Singapore because the teams are tiny and each person has to do so much more in so short a time for so little money. One particular title has just two writers for the whole magazine. Two. Their overseas office wondered why these two writers seemed to come up with everything, and were shocked out of their minds when they found out what the situation was over here.
I didn't start off going into magazine writing because I knew it was all these things and I figured then that it wasn't for me. But I decided to try, with the hopes that I would have the passion to overcome all these shortcomings. Now, at least I know for a fact that these problems are deal breakers for me. If I am to give up my life for something, it has to at least make it worth the sacrifice. Glory and recognition and feeling like a big deal for working for a big title doesn't mean much to me. What I value is time away from work with the people I love and the freedom to do and write the things that I want to. If that means I can't hold down a job any more complicated than, say, a receptionist, so be it. Money doesn't have to be great, it never was that big of an issue for me, but time is.
I was leading a life that was sinking me into depression. I woke up at 7am, worked till 7 or 8pm regularly, went back home, had dinner, showered and slept by 11pm. Even with eight hours of sleep, I woke up groggy and disoriented with a permanent knot in my shoulders. By Friday night, I was dreading Monday mornings. Sleep was my solace as it made the time past faster, and I looked forward to an end of some kind to the weekly routine. A public holiday perhaps, or getting knocked down by a car. But this wasn't school, there are no holidays to look forward to. There are deadlines, like exams, and then more deadlines. And meetings, don't forget the meetings, all four of them per issue. I was starting to have entire days of catatonia, and it scared the hell out of me. For all that I didn't entirely enjoy my previous job, I never felt so bad because of it even towards the end.
So I tendered my resignation. My two-week notice was extended to a month, because they don't think they are able to find another person for the job. I can only hope that with a visible end in sight, it will be easier to bear.
The thing that got to me most was the time crunch. We had two weeks to work on this issue. Two weeks for me to finish nine articles. Why two weeks? Because it took a while to finalize what we would actually work on, and then there's time to be allocated for layouts and rewrites. Not edits, rewrites. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I wasn't the only person who had to do them, except it's sort of like a Holocaust victim trying to cheer herself up because there were other people in the gas chamber with her. One of my colleagues told me she was spectacularly late for this issue because not a single one of her stories would be on time. And that it was normal to be late. It sounds a little like a sales job where the target is set high enough that you'll never hit it without some miracle.
So what's next? I have no clue. Again, I quit without a job offer. Again, I still have a comfortable cushion of savings to mooch off for a while. Apparently the in thing for ex-journalists is to go off to Turkey. Having been to Turkey, I doubt I'll find anything other than lecherous men and bad kebabs (how is it possible that the country they originated from serves such horrible ones?).
Again, it is a topic of great curiosity for some people. Some ask it out of concern, as a necessary follow up question. Some ask it with a touch of urgency, as though hoping to follow in my footsteps. Some ask it with a certain derision, as though what they really want to say is that I'm just some young stupid girl with no idea of how to plan for the future. Well, I guess I should be glad I have about (based on my current salary anyway) a year's pay socked away. I think that should buy me some time to think.
Someone I spoke to today mentioned The Life of Pi, apparently about a guy stuck on a boat in the ocean with a tiger. The story basically talks about people needing a challenge in their life to make their life worth living.
I think that way of looking at life is complete bull. Life is hard enough and short enough that purposely finding something to make your life difficult is like an ostrich sticking its head into the sand. This diversion will not change the fact that we all die and become worm food. If you found out you had a terminal disease and only had a month to live, would you still be doing exactly what you're doing? If the answer is no, perhaps you should start doing more of the things you would immerse yourself in for that last month.
So I lead a hedonistic life. I do the things that please me, fuck the consequences and what other people think. I know quitting after three months is going to draw a lot of derisive lunchtime conversation from my detractors about how they knew I couldn't hack it. So what? At least I have time to pursue what I want in life. Masochism was never something that turned me on.
If I led my life worrying about what other people might think, I suspect I'd be a much less happy person. The one time in my life I decided to stick something out for longer just so I wouldn't be seen as a weakling, it almost drove me mad. That would be about two weeks ago, actually. The fact that just deciding to quit allowed me to sleep like a baby, wake up without feeling exhausted and commute to work without dread was about a clear a sign as any that this was the right decision for me right now. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my CV. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my life. That's fine. Who knows how long I have here? I'd rather make sure I'm at least happy right now.
