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.
I’M ALWAYS AT WORK!
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.
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.
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.