I used to be a bookseller. That's the fancy title for working at a bookstore, and it seems everyone has title these days--just ask the barista behind the coffee cart. I happened to love my job, and never was embarrassed to be working in retail. When my kids were younger, it was my outlet, a way to retain a little of my identity. And I was paid to read and talk about books, something I do anyway. My seasonal position lasted for nearly 5 years. I quit this summer when Greg began traveling more and I couldn't justify paying for a sitter late into the evening. For a couple of months, both of us were either at work or alone with the kids. I didn't realize how tired I was and how much I was missing until I called a truce--we were spread too thin.
Still, there are days I miss Borders. I miss the staff. It occurred to me Sunday at church, when I caught up with a former coworker, that I have been avoiding coming in for a cup of coffee, to read magazines I will not buy. I always told myself, especially when it was a tough day, that I would/could quit my job when I was ready to write. It gave me some excuse to hold on to my lofty notions of what that would look like. But to leave a comfortable job means pursuing my dream, alone and without much feedback or approval. That it would be lonely and hard and exciting and challenging.
I am the ex-girlfriend who just can't move on. I had a sure thing, and I was content. I guess not enough time has lapsed between where I was and where I am headed. I don't trust myself to let go yet. But I'll get there.