Oh, For the Love of God. WHAT Have I Done?

Right.

Today I broke up with my current place of employment. I marched right into my boss’ office and told him that at the end of my current contract I will not be returning and that he should start searching for a suitable replacement as I have been appointed to a fabulous new job with better pay, more perks and is suited to my field. Finding a replacement ought to be easy enough because, again, I still am unclear as to what it is that I am meant to do here.

Then I got chatting to a coworker. I told him that I dropped the proverbial bomb, as it were. He congratulated me. A discussion of my next post ensured. He began to outline what my year should look like at my new company, as he too is familiar with its employers and inner-workings. As he droned on about how things were going to be "different" for me at the new company, I increasingly became more nauseated and started to see spots.

“Oh, and don’t even get me started about the whole obligation to go to parties thing”, he said.

“What? Why? What’s that supposed to mean?” I stammered as I choked back the little bit of vomit that emerged from the pit of my stomach.

“Well, it’s just that whole, ‘she went to my party, so I am obliged to go to hers and I went to dinner at a WESTERN restaurant with this person, so I guess I should invite them to a meal at this OTHER Western restaurant…’ Oh, you know what that means as well as I do.” …
*insert evil laugh here*

With that, my eye twitch resurfaced and I can't say for sure, but think an old ulcer began to bleed. The impending feeling of dread and sudden loss of identity enveloped me as my coworker kept carrying on with the facts of the situation. Visions of endless administrivia, the inability to catch a few vital zzz's and a fire walled computer began to dance in my head --and don't mention the closed-toe shoe policy. Eight hours a day without checking Facebook and the inability to sport my latest pedi seemed, to me, a punishment worse than death itself. The fact that I am notoriously five minutes late for work everyday is my M.O. I can't change that shit over night!

And so I am sitting here now, questioning my motives and already lamenting for the days where I was the only Westerner in my office who was overpaid, barely worked and could polish off the latest in chick lit in one week.

In other words, I’m screwed.