I've been going around for the last week or so saying I've been "fired" because it sounds dramatic and I don't like mealy-mouthed euphemisms: pink-slipped, down-sized, laid off, etc.
But I should probably resist this exciting conversational bombshell as it suggests I was caught stealing company Steno pads or copying dirty pictures on the Xerox machine. The truth is much more depressing and mundane. The financially ailing magazine for which I have worked for the last five years laid off a quarter of its employees last week, and I was one of them.
Surprisingly, I haven't felt much anger or bitterness, two of my emotional specialties.
What I feel is relief. I had a wonderful job and I never, ever would have quit. But it had become an oppressive weekly grind, I was completely burned (burnt?) out, and I am not sorry it's over. I'm happy.
There. I typed the awful words. Zeus will now strike me down. Sacked in one of the worst economic crises in 70 years, and she's happy?
But there we are.
I work for another month, then I'll probably start posting on Tipsy Baker fifty times a day and you can watch me eat crow.