I’m afraid to report that since last I wrote this blog the new me has deserted me. He’s run off with a fabulous new job, a fabulously good-looking boyfriend and a fabulous new flat somewhere, well, fabulous. But don’t feel sorry for me: if the truth be told, I think I drove him to it. I pushed him away. He simply got fed up with being neglected and shunned at every turn. So I only have myself to blame really. Mind you, I can’t say that I miss him that much. He was rather too smug for his own good really.
So, here I am, another doom-laden Sunday seeping away, as the February Frustrations boot out the January Blues with the surety that they’ll be back, same time, same place, next year.
It’s not been a great month so far. In fact, apart from some turbulent Februaries in my teens, I’d say it can go down as a record bad February. My ego, if it took on a physical life form, would surely resemble a six-month-old prune that had been left to wither and shrivel itself to death. My confidence, if it ever existed, has suffered a similar fate, nose diving into the remorseless depths of disappointments. Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself. Very.
I had a strange feeling when Colleague E said she was applying for the same external job as me. I can remember the moment distinctly. But not as well as I will ALWAYS REMEMBER the moment when she told me she’d got it and that therefore I hadn’t. It doesn’t seem to matter that I wasn’t bowled over by the job or the people or the place. On being told of this latest little twist of irony, I was, of course, the paragon of good manners and charm. But not, unfortunately, as charming as Colleague E. And therein in lies the problem me thinks.
And then last week came along. The simple explanation goes like this: my boss’ job is up for grabs since she ‘left’ last year. I wondered whether I should apply and procrastinated up until the very last moment and decided in a red wine fuelled moment of uncharacteristic confidence that I would. And so I did. The only problem is that as soon as I applied I knew, as if someone has just injected me with a heavy dose of self-realisation, that I didn’t want it. Not one bit.
This, of course, unleashed an internal army of panic stricken demons rampaging through my veins as if on acid. Why didn’t I want the job? More responsibility, much better pay and a serious kick up the bum for my dilatory career. Was I some kind of weak loser, devoid of ambition and terrified of responsibility? What was wrong with me? You get the picture.
But today, the crusading demons have quietened down letting the wise old brigadiers within sit up, put down their pipes, shake the dust from their slippers and take a look around. And I do feel better. And what’s more, I’ve made a decision. I am going to withdraw my application. This may make me look a little odd and I may well wonder what might have been. But if by some miracle I was to get the job and thereby took it, I think the ‘what might have been’ question would be even worse. I’m not ready to give up on my wilting dreams just yet, not just for an extra 20k - as attractive as that may sound. And I think, at this stage, there is an either and an or.
All I have to do now is…
