I had no idea I would feel this way.
2:00am and I can’t remember whether or not I got that mystery dirt out from under the nail on my fourth finger. Blinking desperately into the darkness at the ceiling I know is there but can’t see, I’m trying to remember if I ever found the fingernail clippers with the handy swing-out file. Every morning when I wake up the first thing my mind does is take quick inventory of all the things that are still true, but waking prematurely causes a series of misfires and all I can think about is that thin line of crud, how I’d worked at it with every key and file folder and dead pen within reach but just couldn’t get to it without the right tool. It was no use. Nothing fit.
Maybe it’s better I couldn’t find it, I might have used it as a weapon. I might have shivved the condescending bastards at the Internet company, or the jackass parked in the next stall saturating my hair with his toxic smoke. I’d pulled in to the grocery store lot wiped out and cynical after 12 hours away from my family, sent for juice boxes and dish soap before heading home from my shift at the bookstore. I’d slammed my door and taken a deep drink of the October night air and the nicotine sneak attack seizing of my lungs felt like the final insult and there came the hot prickle of tears. Walking quickly inside I thought about all the people I’d encountered that day and how they all seemed sort of ashen and gray, a bit moody, kind of defensive, and despite my funk somewhere in me I understood that they were just reflecting my silly grief back to me, that all day I’d been a walking funhouse mirror, and so I tried to reverse some of it by offering the guy behind me a cart but he pivoted for the baskets instead and so the moment was gone.
Under the cold fluorescent glare I’d balked at the juice box aisle and headed instead to the produce. The craving for something real was like a phantom itch, an undeniable ache. I’d contemplated the broccoli and it wasn’t enough to buy the convenient pre-washed pre-cuts, I wanted the whole head and I wanted to rip the stalks myself and feel their nubbley weight beneath the cool stream of water from my own sink, running through my own fingers. I’d cradled a dripping head of lettuce like a baby, palmed pepper after pepper into my cart and moved on to the cheese, chose a bag of fresh curds and held it for a moment to my face. Took a deep breath.
Leaving the parking lot I’d turned right instead of left, took one last drive past the bookstore where mere hours earlier I’d sat down with the man who’s like family to me and broke the news, something I’d known for quite a while but refused to acknowledge, something I thought I’d never need to say. But six years and two months ago I didn’t know I’d be a paid writer with deadlines and dreams. Six years and two months ago I didn’t have two kids in school to miss me in the evening hours, instead I was with one child or another 24-hours a day and the bookstore was my respite, the loamy smell of books and old paint, the unique silence and comfort of a room of my own, albeit borrowed. I don’t have to borrow anymore and things change and though I know it was the right thing to say goodbye, I don’t know why I don’t feel more relief than grief. Is it strange that a little part-time minimum wage job has defined me so much for so long? Is it weird that I feel a little lost without it, like I can’t find myself in a crowd?
3:00am and it doesn’t feel like an hour has passed. Maybe theories like relativity and laws like gravity and time let loose in the middle of the night and dance and point and laugh. I remember now while driving home I’d reached into the bag in the passenger seat and ripped a handful of lettuce from the head, pressed it into my mouth and tried to chew my way back to real and fine. It didn’t sustain and so I’d reached for the curds but no amount of muscle could rip open that bag. So I’d fumbled in the console and there they were, the elusive nail clippers. Had they been within reach all the time? I’d swiveled open the file and cut into the bag, but then what?
I can see the silhouette of my cat’s head in the inky dark and the rise and fall of Dave’s chest, I can taste the creamy dill of the cheese curds and I can feel the sad weight of my decision in my gut, but for the life of me I can’t remember if I finally cleaned that nail.
Jim says:
The old job was a source of comfort. You’re striking out into bold, new territory so It’s natural to have some remorse.
Another wonderful post Maggie.
Cheese curds cure all though, you should be fine
November 4th, 2008 at 8:30 am
Corina says:
This post is perfection.
But, while the time that defined you for so long will be missed, greatly, we evolve, we change. That will always be a part of you, part of what defines you, part of the very nature of your being. It will ground you as you move on. Your experiences, the essence of the place will not leave you, it will always be a part of you, and it will be evident in the way you move forward.
Congratulations on the job!
November 4th, 2008 at 8:32 am
Elizabeth says:
I, too, have been worried about the dirt under my nail ever since my manicure on Saturday where they did not clean them fully.
I also have that looming conversation that needs to be had. I have been passive aggressive this week and I know it will come to a head soon. I am in delay. I don’t know why.
Great post, Maggie!
November 4th, 2008 at 8:37 am
Rhea says:
You have quite a way with words. I felt trapped with you in the dark, felt the taste (or lack of) of lettuce in my mouth, the fear of change behind my teeth and the permanency stuck underneath my fingernails.
November 4th, 2008 at 8:40 am
brandi says:
Breath…
Things change so we learn how to move on…you`re just making your way…
November 4th, 2008 at 9:06 am
brandi says:
P.S. i love the fact that all your ads on the sidebar are for toe nail clippers now…
November 4th, 2008 at 9:07 am
Nicole says:
Moving on is always hard. A routine – even if it was one we were miserable in – can be hard to break. And if it was pleasant? Then the difficulty is multiplied and accompanied by a string of other emotions that complicate things all the more.
That’s where it’s important to look ahead. Coming from me, the queen of all things nostalgic, that’s quite a commentary. I can say that because as I get older, those memories are still revered, but they’ve lost just a tiny bit of luster. The tiny bit that qualifies it as “the best work I’ve ever done” or “the most fun I’ve ever had.” Because if you think in those terms, and you’ve already done the best or had the most fun, what’s the point in even getting up in the morning?!
Look back briefly and acknowledge. Then smile and stare straight ahead …
November 4th, 2008 at 9:07 am
Gwen says:
This didn’t end up where I thought it would, for reasons that have nothing to do with your writing.
Open doors generally mean closed doors behind them, but I think you’re going to be okay.
November 4th, 2008 at 9:36 am
Kate says:
I always have a hard time with change – so I can imagine how you feel. Even when something is for the best, or if my life will be made less complicated – I clutch to that sameness security blanket until necessity firmly prys it out of my grasp. Maybe that’s not your issue – but I’m just saying that i understand how hard it is to give some things up.
It only gets easier from here.
November 4th, 2008 at 9:50 am
vodkamom says:
It’s tough to face the new day- one with no familiar routine that is like an old blanket we can wrap ourselves in. Be brave as you spread those wings. (We expect of our children, but not of ourselves…..)
November 4th, 2008 at 10:05 am
Sue says:
First of all, you need some “Midnight in Moscow”. Beautiful rich, dark brown / black nail polish. Just gloss it over anything you don’t want to look at!!
Second, I think you are just realizing how much you are going to miss your youngest customer (Mr. Underpants kid). Maybe you could leave him a note – have him stop by your office sometime to give you his view on the daily grind.
Thirdly, congratulations for working so hard on setting your priorities anew. It’s not easy – but I’m sure it will be worth it.
And lastly, have a great day. I hope no one else blows smoke at you.
Sue
November 4th, 2008 at 10:08 am
Jett says:
Wouldn’t it be poetry if somehow the kid ambled into a job there? Like, starting small, sweeping up, and then you walking in to find him an erudite teenager behind the counter, as equally amused by you as you were him?
Congratulations on your bold leap. There’s all kinds of people here willing you an updraft. You’re gonna do great.
November 4th, 2008 at 10:18 am
Bennie says:
Those hours between going to sleep and the alarm clock can be so frigging dramatic. Brilliant post.
November 4th, 2008 at 10:48 am
Christy says:
It’s amazing the game those early hours can play…what a great piece.
November 4th, 2008 at 10:50 am
Pamela says:
Breathe and believe, my friend. But know this: lettuce is not comfort food. Please fire the advisor who gave you such incorrect information. Cheese curds were a better starting point.
Life is funny, sometimes, when things are not at all what you thought they were, and when the reaction you least expect comes screaming around the corner on two wheels, trying to escape.
Breathe and believe. And no more lettuce.
November 4th, 2008 at 10:57 am
jill says:
oh, the things that you can’t get out of your head laying awake in the middle of the night. Change is scary and exhilarating all at the same time! Don’t second guess yourself, I’m sure you made the right decision
November 4th, 2008 at 11:12 am
tysdaddy says:
Man, I hate days like that. When something BIG happens and it seems to cloud everything . . . every little thing takes on a different context in relation to the BIG thing. I end up walking in a fog, barely noticing those around me, those who need me most. A few days ago, I had a similar, though less traumatic, experience. Then I went out for breakfast with a friend. (Yes, stuff tends to happen early for me . . . ) I sat eating my omelet and thinking and then I saw a hand wave in front of my eggs. I had been completely ignoring my friend and needed to snap out of it.
So, yeah, I’ve been there . . .
November 4th, 2008 at 11:20 am
crazymumma says:
Sometimes I wake in the night. Breathless. Claustraphobic.
Change is so hard at times, on the brink everything before you. it’s that feeling just before the plunge.
November 4th, 2008 at 11:26 am
Greta/Does This Blog Make Us Look Fat? says:
At the risk of sounding like an old grandpa, I’m proud of you. (and anyway…most old grandpas are nice)
November 4th, 2008 at 11:46 am
Gypsy says:
That was achingly beautiful.
After six years, it’s bound to be hard to go, especially from a place of such comfort.
November 4th, 2008 at 12:16 pm
Execumama says:
Beautifully written. I hate to say this, but it was Dark & Lovely! I know, the hair products, sorry. Couldn’t help it. That’s how I felt about this post. Got all up in my head and attempted to straighten some things out while rolling around in the dark, ya know.
Thanks for writing!
November 4th, 2008 at 12:35 pm
JES says:
Was talking to a co-worker yesterday and asked her, by way of small talk, the generic “How’ve you been?” question.
“My job,” she said, and made a face. But then she corrected herself: “Actually, to be honest, I do really love my job…” She struggled for the “but” to complete the thought.
I offered, “You love your job but you just wish you didn’t have to come to work to do it?”
“YEAH!” she said. “That’s exactly it!”
Glad to see you’re separating out the wheat from the chaff, Maggie, and accepting (with difficulty, maybe
) the costs of moving to a focus-on-wheat lifestyle. You’ve got a REAL job now, not just a tres-comfortable nich — you’ve found your life’s work in fact — and you’ve got a perfect workplace as well. When you can, remember that, and you’ll probably find the wee morning hours flying by much more quickly.
November 4th, 2008 at 12:42 pm
magpie says:
I kind of want to be in your shoes.
November 4th, 2008 at 1:21 pm
HeatherPride says:
Oh my goodness, change is always scary isn’t it?
November 4th, 2008 at 1:23 pm
Xbox4NappyRash says:
Does this mean there’s an opening?
November 4th, 2008 at 1:40 pm
maggie, dammit says:
Nope! She filled it.
November 4th, 2008 at 1:43 pm
Oh2122 says:
I’ve had this pot in my reader all day. I keep marking it as new and trying to think of something to say.
Something witty. Something encouraging.
Here’s what I keep coming back to: I’ve had this pot in my reader all day. I keep marking it as new and trying to think of something to say.
That alone tells me how compelling your words are.
You won’t be ok. You’ll be FREAKING AWESOME!
November 4th, 2008 at 3:44 pm
SugarJones says:
I felt every word of that. Lovely…
November 4th, 2008 at 5:13 pm
muskrat says:
That’s sort of how I felt when I left Chuck E. Cheese after a summer of playing the rat. Not.
http://tinyurl.com/4m7mzg
November 4th, 2008 at 5:14 pm
Fran says:
I know it’s hard, but embrace your decision. You are an inspiration for many.
November 4th, 2008 at 6:50 pm
Rachie says:
Every word touched me greatly. I will continue to read you until you are no longer there to read.
November 4th, 2008 at 6:55 pm
Jennifer H says:
One day (and think of this when you need to) you will walk into that store just to see your name on the spine of a book you wrote, when it’s just hit the shelves. And then one night, you’ll go back for a reading, and everyone will eat up every word – real and fine – and that grief you feel now will have become something else. Something bigger, and whatever it was always meant to become. Just like your life.
For now, I say stick with the cheese curds. Can’t hurt.
November 4th, 2008 at 7:53 pm
Pare says:
I know it’s not a lot in the middle of the night or on the phone in the afternoon or at the store before closing, but I love you, and I am positive everything is going to be okay. (Since I am always right, you can count on it.)
I will help you through Canada and with Louise and all the rest. You’ll have to share your curds plus wine, obviously.
Baby steps, love. One hour at a time. You’re okay. You can do all of this. Keep your face to the sun.
November 4th, 2008 at 7:57 pm
Heather says:
Good for both of you. It is hard to make a sea change.
November 4th, 2008 at 8:29 pm
flutter says:
I can’t say that I don’t envy your bravery.
Because I totally do.
November 4th, 2008 at 8:47 pm
Captain Steve says:
It’s scary, changing things.
But it gets better.
November 4th, 2008 at 11:29 pm
Kelley says:
A new chapter in your life. No matter how wonderful, you still need to mourn for the passing of the old.
November 5th, 2008 at 1:31 am
Secret Agent Mama says:
The way you write is just….gripping!
Fabulous. I’m loving “getting to know you.”
November 5th, 2008 at 9:06 am
Jo says:
The great thing is, you can still go hang out there, breathe the smell, chat, feel at home. It’s a place you’ll always have.
November 5th, 2008 at 4:27 pm
Teri says:
It’s hard picking up the pencil and starting anew. I thought I would feel that way when I left teaching to stay at home with kids. It turned out to be a gift. Life is taking a new direction. It will be good for you. I’m sure of it. This is a passion for you. That’s the best thing to be doing for a living!!
P.S. I’m not a cyber stalker. I’m Heather’s friend. We grew up together. She told me sometimes you worry about new readers.
November 5th, 2008 at 5:24 pm
A Free Man says:
According to your ads you’ve cured toenail fungus. Well done.
Sounds like progress to me, leave it behind and keep heading forward.
November 5th, 2008 at 5:36 pm
conversemomma says:
I would walk away and never look back. I would not be turned to a pillar of salt, but my dreams are anchored by money to keep us in diapers and cheese, money I make that is necessary, I always think, but do I know. Your post makes me wonder.
November 5th, 2008 at 5:50 pm
noble pig says:
What a beautiful post and congrats to you my dear!
November 5th, 2008 at 7:17 pm
Duck says:
Good Lord you’re a good writer!
November 5th, 2008 at 7:27 pm
The Introvert says:
Wow. On one hand, you’ve made me feel like a totally inadequate writer and that my blog is a suckfest. But on the other hand, I can’t stay mad at you, and I totally love you.
November 5th, 2008 at 8:46 pm
just beth says:
wow, Maggie. Big changes. This was a great post. Really truly great.
xo
b.
November 6th, 2008 at 10:22 am
we_be_toys says:
Change is good, change is necessary, but none of that means it doesn’t hurt like hell when we have to actually do it. Working in a book store might not be a glam, high powered job, but I can see it’s allure. There’s something infinitely comforting about being surrounded by books, especially old books, with their wonderful decaying smell and intricate covers. Maybe you can make guest appearances occasionally, or have your first book signing there?
Deep sigh…one last look back, and ever onward we go.
November 6th, 2008 at 10:56 am
Kori says:
I think a lot of the times, the harder the decision the more it needs to be made-no matter how much it hurts. Grief is necessary for healing, and even if you are losing something not-so-great, it still hurts.
November 6th, 2008 at 2:16 pm
sweetsalty kate says:
Getting to know you only seems to leave me more speechless.. I’d hoped the opposite would be true and I’d have something worthy to say in return other than:
what pare said, about turning to face the sun.
xo
November 6th, 2008 at 7:03 pm
bejewell says:
Slow, deep breaths. Eyes closed. The shock of your new life is setting in. It’ll pass.
November 6th, 2008 at 7:48 pm
Mojo says:
You know Maggie, there’s probably nobody happier for you than that guy who owns the bookstore.
Except for maybe me.
And Dave of course. At least he better be.
Your cat, on the other hand, probably doesn’t give a shit one way or the other.
You’re an inspiration to an awful lot of people girl. Look around you. Look at the bazillion comments you get in a day’s time. Think of the lives you touch and make better every.single.day.
And when your eyes fly open at 2:00 AM? Come back and read this again.
‘Cause insomnia? It blows.
November 6th, 2008 at 9:14 pm
Meg Casey says:
breathtaking…thank you.
November 6th, 2008 at 11:57 pm
Angel says:
You’re so good at writing us into your world. Great post.
November 7th, 2008 at 4:34 am
enthalpymama says:
Thank you. You are always a great read. I know your decision is in some ways obvious, but I certainly understand the sadness of closing a door.
November 7th, 2008 at 11:31 am
chanda says:
Even positive change is scary as hell, but you are one hell of a woman, and I know you can weather the light night hampster wheels. The safety of the bookstore is still there in the people who love you.
November 7th, 2008 at 6:29 pm
anymommy says:
Moving forward smarts a little doesn’t it? Breathe. You’re awesome.
November 9th, 2008 at 3:56 am
sizzle says:
Beautifully written (as usual). I hope relief creeps in to take place of your grief.
November 9th, 2008 at 10:09 am
Mr. Chuck says:
Hey Maggie,
Tough day but you have a new and desperately needed function now to facilitate the spread of anti violence in the home and that is going to be your new escape and place to go both inside your head and by sharing with the world. it is scary to jump into a new realm like this but you jump and close your eyes and pray for the best that is all we can do! I will miss being able to stop in and say hi but we will still be pals!
C
November 10th, 2008 at 1:04 pm
Bluestreak says:
this post is so well rounded. I love how you can show me a day in your life and I´m just hooked.
November 17th, 2008 at 5:46 am