![]() ![]() I was grateful to have kept my job, one of the few constants in an otherwise turbulent year at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel I was running out of labor to give, especially as I watched my social-media feeds light up with reports of other professionals clocking out for good. ![]() I was responsible for both our livelihood and our health insurance. The next day would be better, I told myself, and even if it wasn’t, reality proved unignorable: My wife, like millions of other Americans, had lost her job in the pandemic. I’d tell my editor, “You know what, actually? Today’s my last day.” Then I’d sign out of Slack, forever.īut, of course, I never did. Then, instead of doing it, I’d simply … not. Here’s how I imagined my resignation: I would wait for that familiar feeling to set in, the one in which I’d sooner be swallowed into the Earth’s core than complete one more routine work task. It was the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas, a time when, historically, little work gets accomplished anyway. My quitting fantasies became most vivid in December. ![]()
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