The end of an era

I had to change my outgoing voicemail at work today. This is what it now says:

"You've reached Jessie Colburn. I no longer work with [my company]. Please contact [my former supervisor] with any further issues or concerns. She can be reached at [her new number]. Thank you."

Amazingly, this was not the most difficult part of my day.

Everyone knows I'm emotional--even, no especially, when it's entirely uncalled for. I am that girl who cries at Hallmark and Mother's Day ads; that girl who gets teary in movie previews; that girl who weeps at the end of Mutt Dog, a picture book by Stephen Michael King, because the last line says: "And each night when Mutt Dog goes to sleep, he knows exactly where he belongs."

So it stands to reason, then, on the day I'm leaving my job--a job I've loved (and hated) for two and a half years--I would be a complete basket case.

Here's the funny thing about denial, though: It can be fantastic when dealing with extremely emotional situations. Up until it disappears and you're left with the haunting reality that this is, in fact, actually happening.

I was able to keep it together through most of the day--saying goodbye to coworkers who have become close friends; having my last lunch at the Yard House with my editorial pals (one of whom was a bridesmaid at my wedding and who remains one of my favorite people); even turning off my computer for the last time wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.

Strangely, the hardest thing was turning in my keycard to the acting HR representative, Marsha Brubaker. Marsha and I were not close office buddies. Our cubicles are on opposite sides of the floor and our assigned duties don't have much in common. We've bonded over our individual circumstances during this miserable transition phase, and for that I'm grateful. But I never would have guessed that she'd be the one to see me at my worst.

Handing over that key, though, was ridiculous. This was my first real office job. It was my first step in my publishing career. And over the course of the last six months, it has been ripped and pulled and forced into something that is utterly unrecognizable to me. This is not one person's fault; and I do not blame the new house that purchased ours. It's business and I understand that. But because the whole process has been drawn out for so long, a part of me doubted that it was actually coming.

And then I had to hand in my key to a place that no longer exists. It was more than just surrendering my access to the building. It was an acknowledgment that I can never actually go back to this place because doing so would mean traveling through time. Which--and I hate to be the bearer of bad news here--isn't possible yet.

Of course the office, and the job, weren't perfect. Everything is and was flawed. But these flaws were familiar and the work was incredible.

And dammit, it's hard to have it gone.