catharsis
December 08, 2003, 11:14 pm

This morning on the news, the anchor was talking about the difference between kindness and being nice. Being nice, she said, was a social condition; we're nice because it is what is expected of us and society demands we act a certain way. To be kind, then, is to do something strictly out of the goodness of your heart.

How lucky am I that I have a good friend in SlowMotionRiot who is the epitome of kindness? Seriously, the man takes me to Paper Moon Diner and offers me an omlette and his attention for a delightful afternoon because he knew I was upset and that I needed just that. It was delicious to fill my tummy with goodness and to fill my conscientious with the knowledge that here was a guy who really, really cared.

As a truly selfish person, I am sincerely in awe of the kindness of others; man, S-M-R, you are so awesome. Thank you, buddy. Oh, that everyone in the world was more like you. Talking to Yaya earlier I said, "You know, I'm lucky, Yaya. I have too many damn friends. Seriously. I'm really, really lucky." I forget to remind all my friends that they're important to me in their ways; I'm a lucky, lucky gal indeed.

Lots of kindness has bounded my way lately. Emails, gbook signings, and the occasional grope have reaffirmed my faith in humanity; many people have stepped up the love in response to my whining. I haven't had time or opportunity to thank everyone else individually, but know that it's hitting home. RIGHT HERE. I wake up in the morning, and while I may be dreading going to school or getting my day started, I know that the promise of encountering people who give me warm-fuzzies in talking to them will get me through the next 24 hours...if not the next six months.

The gauntlet has been thrown, ladies and gents. Place your bets and fire up the ring of death; I'm leaving my job at the end of the year. I think. I know. It's time.

I love lots of things about my job; I love lots of things about the work that I do; I also know that if I continue at this break-neck pace for too much longer, I will hate my job more than anything. The fantasies I've been harboring about wrapping my car around a tree to have a day off work will outnumber the happy thoughts I have about planning a great grammar lesson (and I have a doozy tomorrow, let me tell you). I knew getting into this profession that the day that I woke up not completely jazzed to walk into work was the day I needed to say, "Enough."

And I'm sorry it has come to this. I'm sorry that my youthful idealism has washed away to leave behind something briny, rough, and unattractive. I'm heartbroken that I wasn't cut out for this forever; I wasn't really in it for the long haul. I feel like I've failed because, well, because Ifeel like I'm giving up. I am. There are a lot of things that are contributing to my feeling this way, and they all don't have to do with me, but I'm tired of anything having to do with it.

See, what you don't know about me is that I'm safe. I played it safe in high school and got a full scholarship to a state school. I panicked upon graduation and went into grad school to get my Master's because it was something else to prolong the inevitable; I panicked and started working at my alma mater not only because I loved it, but because it was SAFE: employment water-wings, training-wheels, a big fish in a big pond once again.

Maybe never testing myself is what really makes me a failure...that by not attempting the chance to fail has made me a failure. Maybe I'm failing to explain my failure scenarios properly, but it makes sense to me.

So here I am world: warts, sore feet, junk-in-the-trunk, hot hair and all. I could be coming to a place near you soon enough.