there's not a lot for you to feel if you're not feeling it

honestly, i've had breakups go better than this.

i'm talking of course about my final two weeks at work. i gave three weeks notice, thinking i was doing something particularly gracious and reasonable. here, conde nast, an extra week to find someone else to take over the dubious honor of my position. let me know how i can help. i want to make this transition easy for everyone.

essentially, it's not you, it's me. except, in some ways, it is you. in a lot of ways. okay, it's fucking you.

well, let me say, lesson learned, my friends. when they say to give two weeks notice, just give two. because once you say you're leaving--and mind you, not for another job, not to go to a competitor who is willing to pay you more without some bullshit move of leveraging a bad paycheck with a good name--just to leave, like, maternity leave--you're suddenly a traitor. and that's not creative writing folks. last week, i said good morning to the head of our sales team, and her response:

"traitor."

i think if i only had to get through this week, i wouldn't really care. it would be a slow death, but merciful. two more weeks of this? seriously. i think i now know how terry schiavo must have felt.

that being said, i certainly can't wallow. yes, my sales rep won't talk to me unless she has to. yes, i'm merely being cc'd on emails that used to be sent directly to me. someone else is taking over for me. i'm supposed to take this time to train him. the extent of our training: "i hope you like screaming into your keyboard." i don't know what else i could offer. an apology? a hug?

but really, i'm safe. even if they fired me, they'd have to give me two weeks. maybe that means no letter of recommendation for future employers, but honestly, people. i can do without it. there's a terrific quote someone told me last night: "may the bridges i burn light the way."

not the ideal, of course. and not like i want to leave this job in a blaze of glory. or a blaze at all. it's going to absolutely gut me to leave some of these people. it's rare to find people who let you be as weird as you want, and then find a way to match it. "the girls at work," as they're collectively known, are a strange pack, but unassuming in their weirdness, and entirely charming in the deception. my first impression of all of them: totally wrong. i did not think i could get away with calling them "snakes" or pretending to be a cripple balanced on a pair of ski poles on a weekly basis (fridays, usually) or talking quite so unabashedly about all the bad sex i've had.

but then, unprompted, they started addressing me as "snakes," and i thought: well, son of a bitch.

jay actually said this weekend, "you leave this residue of your weirdness wherever you go." he was more so speaking to how my parents have learned to respond to their nicknames, or address my old car as "manjula" or whatever else i've indoctrinated into their lives, but i suppose it goes for work as well.

and if i can leave these people with anything, if not an exit fit for a queen, if not a fiery inferno of all possible future business connections, then let them every once in a while ask, "what's shakin', bacon?" or sign an email, "xoxo, carl winslow." may at least one occasion be described as "a pleasure for the tips" in my absence.

then i'll know i have done my job.