I was thinking of all the things that I would never do again.
Prison comes to mind - terrible food, lousy wardrobe, unsavory company - definitely a one and done deal.
A bad relationship is another. Unfit partners take forever to escape. Yet, it only takes one weak moment to fall back into the trap. Don’t do it. Once you have the t-shirt, call it a day.
And there are seemingly a million other things as well: cigarette smoking, crappy restaurants, and those terrible seats in the back of a plane. No return trips on any of these rides.
I just heard that a friend took a job with a giant software company. Now, if she were a young woman, that would make sense. But she’s not. And to make matters worse, she’s an artist. Her independent streak is as wide as the Mississippi River. And she’s old enough not to care about these things anymore.
That’s why I worry. Something must be wrong.
Maybe I’m projecting. Because I know that I could never inhale the plastic vapors of a cubical again. I hate meetings that decide nothing. And I certainly don’t want a boss that cares more about his back than mine.
I’m fairly sure that any reasonable person who has seen the unfluorescent light of day feels the same way. Remember kids, you can’t move back home when you’re 30. It doesn’t work that way.
So I worry about my friend. I hope she’s OK.
I hope she’s not past the point of no return.