I HAVE THE rest of the week off, then one more week at The Whig.
Then I'm officially unemployed.
I'm terrified. But I'm feeling good. Great, actually. And I'm winning the battle with my Dutch Calvinistic guilt. I've been in the journalism and newspaper bidness for 24 years, and why shouldn't I go after something else on my terms?
There are some intriguing things out there already. I'm prepared to spend some time finding something else to do, and I do need something else to do. Plus there's the huge smelly pile of goo called health insurance, and don't get me started or there will be anger management issues and we'll have blog violence.
The store is set with Sheryl and a part-time employee. I'm not needed sitting around and playing the guitar and generally getting in the way. And ... I need something to do, something that will challenge me and pay the bills.
I don't necessarily want to deliver lunch, water flowers or cut grass for a living. But I did get a little defensive when somebody suggested "it would be such a waste" if I didn't write.
I watched Caddyshack last night and when Judge Smails delivered the classic line, "Well, the world needs ditch diggers too," I laughed again for the millionth time. But it's so true. And if I dig ditches and I'm happy, it's all good.
I aspire for higher ditch digging callings. Head above water, Hoser. The adventure begins.
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