You Have One Job

Get used to it.

Since I was 27, I’ve had two jobs: full-time editor/writer (hospital, association, agency that wrote other company’s newsletters, agency that wrote newsletters for people who wrote newsletters) and a robust freelance gig, first for the Chicago Tribune, then The Washington Post.

In 2011, I quit full time editing and became a massage therapist. I kept freelancing for The Post Magazine mainly and the Washington Business Journal.

Now I am a massage therapist. Nobody else pays me. I fill out zero W-9s and my taxes and days are much less complex.

I don’t miss the stress of lining up interviews, or the stickiness of getting into a piece and not knowing how to come out of it. I especially don’t miss the stress of worrying about the reactions. I wasn’t writing puff pieces but I always wanted to do right by my sources.

I miss the thrill of publication, of seeing how the art director and photographers translated my ideas and captured the sources. I miss hearing from sources gobsmacked to find a picture of their grandma’s china or their kid’s pandemic project in a national newspaper. I very much miss pitching the idea and wrangling and playing it. I was lucky to have stellar, receptive editors.

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What I miss is no more. The sections slashed, the special pub profiles reduced to sources answering easy questions, the editors fired or hamstrung by limited budgets.

I do still get jazzed when capturing a memory, weekend, trip or emotion in an essay on here, but it’s not the same and I can’t expect it to be. That expectation has stolen joy and stoked jealousy. I am letting it go and embracing the satisfaction, real time feedback, trust and lifelong connections massage brings.

Today is my day off — and yesterday was unexpectedly too, thanks to menopausal headaches and cramps. I struggle not to feel guilty listening to Robert on endless calls, as I scurry off to Trader Joe’s, or comb the carpet with one of those dog hair removal doo dads — playing housewife to the hilt.

It’s gonna take some reprogramming to shift into my next phase(s). My body can’t lean over a table forever, and I don’t want to wind up unable to enjoy retirement because I said yes for too long.

Some may argue that caring for Mom is a part-time gig, and it does demand focus, flexible hours and the occasional Xanax.

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to rush into filling my hours just to avoid guilt. Adjusting to the change in tempo of my days takes practice. I want to volunteer, but I’m starting at locally, helping neighbors and picking up trash in the parks around my house.

I’ve been lucky to be good at the two careers I set my mind, body and heart to. Why not trust myself to let this story unfold? Am I afraid the rug will be pulled out from me financially? No, we’ve saved, I’ve worked through old fears and done all we can. Do I feel as if the world is such a shit show that I should be doing more to clean it up? Definitely.

I’m going to think about that at the pool, after I walk Laser.