I resigned today.
I should be filled with excitement, nervous of starting anew, breaking out from my rut. I am, and was, right until my editoress – not my big boss, but the one who thinks she rules my life, and does – got wind of my official notification.
She wears Zoom shoes.
I am fuming. Filled with anxiety, because the editoress from hell is about to make my life a living one.
In a fashion so typical of her, she made my resignation personal.
It suddenly all became about her.
I wrote a very nice resignation letter to my boss, one that he possibly doesn’t deserve, waxing lyrical about how invaluable my time there has been, how much I’ve learnt, and how much I have enjoyed working at Hell Inc. (Pty) Ltd.
Most of the above is a lie, but one has to do these things with quiet dignity, and be gracious about it.
She storms in, on hearing the news, possibly after she’s banged him on the copier, (because that’s what we think happens after hours), and:
Zoom: [stomp stomp stomp, crash, bang, dagger eyes]
Peas: [mute and pretending to furiously type]
Zoom: [after eight excruciating minutes, acidic and biting]..so I hear you’re leaving.
Peas: Yes, I am.
Zoom: Oh. [said like I’ve just told her to fuck off, which I haven’t. Yet.]
Zoom: Where you going?
Peas: It’s a secret. But am happy about my decision.
Zoom: Well a head’s up would’ve been nice.
Peas: I’m sorry?
Zoom: When did you find out when you were going and why didn’t you run this past me?
Peas: About two hours ago. Sorry, run this past you?
Zoom: Then why didn’t you tell me then? Who do you think you are?
Peas: What I did was standard protocol. I wrote a letter to my employer and told him I am resigning. I don’t get where you fit in here, or why I’d need your permission. I didn't realise my resignation was up for discussion?
I'm missing the part where this should be an issue. She refuses to talk to me, told me I’m a sneaky liar who did this under her nose, and despite my ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’ve left you in the lurch, I understand it’s hectic, but it’s my time to go,’ doesn’t wash with her.
She’s not sad, she’s angry with me. Not because I’m irreplaceable, but because I have a prospect. She thinks I’ve done this to destroy her somehow, which is ironic since the bitch was always out to destroy me.
One too many knives in my back kind of way.
It’s put a real black spot on everything. I don't even want to come into work to finish off my stuff.
But here I am, waiting for the shitstorm above my head to pass so that I can focus on my new prospect.