I had to do some stressful work-related traveling this week, but the upshot was that I got to meet some colleagues at my level, which was quite helpful. They confirmed some of the reasons I’d been hesitant to take a job like this: it’s lonely being the boss, you have to deal with a lot of politics, you’re always “on,” everyone wants something from you, etc.
I’d also been hesitant to relocate to an outlying area in order to move up; I predicted it might be an easier life, but I wasn’t sure what I’d do with myself away from the urban center.
Yet here I am. I wouldn’t want to go back to my former life in L.A. necessarily, and it’s probably a good thing I’m pushing myself careerwise. I also certainly appreciate the financial security (not enough to change my life in any major way, but enough to put fears about retirement to rest, if I can stick it out for a good amount of time). But, given that I think it’s wise to keep some emotional distance from the job and to find passions elsewhere, I don’t know what I’m about or what excites me anymore. I’m once again thinking that the only feasible answer to my predicament is to get involved in a relationship, but at the same time I’m resentful that seems to be the only answer and further annoyed that it’s so damn difficult to find one.
Some of my older colleagues this week spoke about their exotic travels with their spouses and couple friends. Couple friends? What a concept! I haven’t heard from my couple friends in ages. And I can’t seem to work up much excitement for travel anymore since I’d have to go alone.
In the middle of my work travels, my old friend posted a happy, smiling picture of herself at home with the two gorgeous children she gave birth to in her early forties.
I read recently that children in orphanages stop feeling pain because nobody comes to their aid when they get hurt. I’m feeling less and less myself these days.