Photo by Ricardas Brogys on Unsplash
Has it been three months already?
On the Friday morning after the Tuesday when New Jersey’s governor was re-elected, on the Friday morning after the Thursday evening when our staff celebrated with good wine, great food and matchless camaraderie, I officially joined the ranks of the consciously uncoupled from the working world.
It wasn’t my first retirement, but it was my first voluntary one.
I was lucky — blessed — to find a great position, a second career, a gig as a publicist after my days (and mostly nights) in daily newspapers and websites were abruptly halted by a corporate restructuring. My team? Dissolved. My position? Gone. My value to the company? Obsolete.
Happy Halloween, 2018! Here’s your packet: Mostly tricks, few treats. Three days to COBRA my benefits or piggyback onto my wife’s. No pressure.
So after a 13-month search, landing another position where my words and pictures could make a difference in people’s lives was a gift.
But no sooner had I (mostly) come up to speed and bonded with my co-workers than BAM! came the pandemic. We went from planning events to postponing and then canceling them, saturating ourselves in Zoom and emails and websites and social media and saying goodbye — for a while, at least, and possibly forever — to mass mailings and conventional conventions.
As COVID claimed the lives or livelihoods of tens of thousands of essential workers, I realized ol’ Damocles’s sword kept getting closer and closer to me, and after a couple of close shaves, I heard the Goddamned Presbyterian Home beckoning.
So I tied off loose ends and walked away, head held high, with the thanks and best wishes of my two legendary bosses and my weekday lunch bunch. I left a portfolio of work that helped the organization transition to a more-digital present (the future is here, folks!).
These days I continue being a news junkie, and as I immerse myself in newsletters and soak in CNN, I have a broader perspective based on my two years’ worrying about working people.
My commute is one minute instead of one hour.
My cats have my legs to lean against and my lap to sleep on.
And there’s a 50-50 chance the kitchen floor may finally get mopped. Well, maybe 25-75.
