I cleaned out the majority of my desk today at work. I still have another week, but I'd rather do it now. Because in a week I'll be too busy weeping and saying goodbye to remember to pack the box of tampons that's in my bottom drawer. I can only handle so much emotion at once. And boxing up the remnants of two-and-a-half years is mostly not fun at all.
It feels sort of like a breakup.
I spent the morning sorting through old notes and notebooks. Laughing at that one time I quoted a guy at the bar as saying, "I like balls," while I was interviewing him about energy drinks. He never said it, but I wrote it down like the thorough reporter I am. I don't even remember writing it. I simply saw it written in my notes later that night.
I gave things away. Filled my coworkers' mailboxes with tokens of my appreciation. Like the old dinosaur ruler. And pages from my day-by-day calendar I had pinned on my bulletin board.
My last day is next Friday, but two-thirds of my favorite ladies won't even be here to properly send me off. Not that anyone will be sending me off, since I'm stuck working the night shift, and I'll end up walking myself out the door at 11 p.m.
Yeah, OK, hi. This is me feeling sorry for myself. I hear violins playing and everything.
This job is certainly not my favorite thing in the world. In fact, I've spent a good part of the last year-and-a-half looking for a new one, but that doesn't mean it's not significant. It doesn't mean the people I see everyday at the office haven't become family since I moved here in the spring of 2005.
It sort of makes my insides hurt to realize all of this familiarity will be gone. My desk. The telephone greeting I've mastered. "Newsroom, this is Krista." My friends two feet away, literally, at all times. Office gossip. My favorite parking spot.
Oh. My God.
It's going to be a long final week.