My Other Life

My other life called me today. Strange, because just when I was getting all settled into the idea of never laying eyes on another pair of Antonio Melanis again, here comes this phone call out of the blue … and I had to make a decision parked in the middle of a dirt road with my milk getting warm in the floorboard and a burr of hay that had worked its way into my coveralls chafing my backside.

Here’s the deal: My old job was quasi political in a state where politics is a blood sport. Think Survivor on steroids. After about four years, I made my way through the jungle and I have to say, I got to run with the big dogs on occasion. And it was fun. Also, on occasion. Most of the time it was grueling. Most of the time it was frightening. Most of the time it ate my lunch because I suffer from can’t-lie-worth -shit-syndrome and people used me to be their silver bullet. Got something to say but don’t want to be sanctioned or feel the heat? Invite Stella. She can’t keep her mouth shut. Countless sleepless nights spent praying I hadn’t pissed on the wrong person’s parade.

But then there were the other times. The excitement of two or three colleagues eating dinner at 2 in the morning and planning the strategy for the legislative session.  Which bills to support? Which to oppose? Which legislators to align ourselves with and which to run the hell away from? The absolute thrill of watching something good but not so politically sexy prevail over something that was all about lining someone’s pocket somewhere but looked fantastic on the evening news.

The warmth of a thumbs up between strangers fighting for the same purpose. A hug from a victim.

There were more good times than bad, I suppose, but it could be that I’m looking at it through the fuzzy glasses of hindsight. Truth is that life was greedy: it cost me more than it gave. It cost me friendships. In part, it cost me my marriage. And ultimately, it cost me my health.

My body tried to warn me. I began losing weight. (Ironic,  yes… but for someone who gains five pounds by thinking of my grandmother’s apple pie, spontaneous weight loss is not a good sign.) I stopped sleeping. I lived on coffee all day and Jack Daniels to put me to sleep at night. Post it notes became a substitute for lucid thought. I trusted no one.

All of this and a million more hi-lo-lights ran through my mind this afternoon. And when I answered, I was honest. I don’t have what it takes anymore. Maybe I never did. I don’t know. But more than I want a job, I want to be happy. More than I want a position, I want to be fulfilled. It’s not enough to just get by anymore.  I want to be alive again. And so I chose to live my life, my way, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

With that said, I  must say:  I am totally lusting after a pair of shoes I saw online. Cutest little saddle oxford lace ups, gray on black, with about a four inch heel. I almost bought them and then I remembered the rows of boxes in my closet, all filled with lonely shoes that haven’t stepped out into the light of day for three years. It would be wrong to buy another pair and leave them unworn.

I’ll go ahead and confess something else: I know I made the right decision, but I’m still a little sad.

If I wasn’t on a damn diet I’d eat chocolate.