In Which I Correct Myself

I misspoke. This isn't my penultimate free Sunday. It is my penultimate Sunday that I go to bed saying, "oh, shit, I've got to get up and go to work tomorrow..." It is the penultimate Sunday before all of my days are free--once again.

I gave my notice two weeks ago. My final day is October 31. I lasted just over six months. This seems to be about average at my agency. In my letter of resignation, I carefully worded it thusly: "I cannot do the job in the way I believe it must be done without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something I'm unwilling to do." What I tell people is this: "The thing about working for a non-profit is that what you give up in pay, you get back in emotional rewards. This job can't be done in a way that would give me the requisite emotional rewards without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something...yadayadayada."

The reality is that the people in charge are clueless about how to engender loyality in their employees. They talk the talk but don't walk the walk. I wonder if they're even curious about why they keep training people who quit in a couple of months. My manager says, "It's a very hard job and a good fit for few people." Well, um, might you want to change that a wee bit? Because Sacramento doesn't have an endless pool of therapists and social workers--and, guys! you're quickly working your way through all of us.

So come November 1, I shall return to my former state of being, not much older, but a whole lot wiser about me and my place in my world.