1. Friday

I hate this job. I really do. 
I’m not quite sure when I realized it. It sort of snuck up on me. 
I’ve been here for twenty years this March. I’ve been here too long to look for something else; not long enough to be even close to retirement. At a minimum, I have ten years left. 
Ugh. Ten years. I might just kill myself. 
Okay, not really. 
If you’d look closely at what I do, you’d think I have it made. I work for a major outdoor clothing company. I’m an executive in the marketing department. I travel regularly for my job. I make a crap load of money. 
My retirement is sealed. I have savings upon savings, partly because I can never find the time to take a vacation. 
And I’m not happy. 
I went to school. I fell in love. I got married. I fell into what I thought was a great job. We bought a big house. We had a baby. 
Life happened. 
Then the divorce. My son went to college. I sold the house and bought a condo in the city. 
And I work. 
And I work, and I work, and I work.
Seriously. I’m here at seven every morning, and I’m rarely home before seven at night. I’ve worked so many Saturdays I’ve lost count.
Sundays? I sleep. And do laundry. And order take-out so I can blob in front of the television. 
Something’s got to give.
I want something else. I do. 
I know it. I feel it. I want it. I dream about it. 
But I have no idea what it is.

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This is part of my experiment to write a romance novel by writing one chapter a day for 365 days. Read more about it here.