Ending

My last day at work is less than three weeks away. I'm glad for the upcoming chance to reinvent myself, where no one knows my clothing style (easily changed); where no one has seen me wear sneakers every day (I've bought half a dozen new shoes); where no one has seen tiny wrinkles settle in my face (I am over thirty); in a place where no one knows my work history or my struggles in life or on the job (new struggles await). This leaving is also sad around the edges. I've drifted away from most of my peers at work, both physically and emotionally. My job duties at the MIT Libraries shifted in the past year so that I'm mostly alone most days. I rarely speak to my coworkers and I see them even less. They have lives that I'll never know about and in two and a half weeks I'll say goodbye to them for what may be the last time. How much more could they have taught me if I'd stuck around for longer, if I'd taken a chance and gotten closer?

Yet. My position at the library, and the positions of my coworkers, haven't historically been long-term. Among the five of us I'm the most senior, and I'll be leaving after less than four years at the job. (My boss has referred to my going to law school this way: "You're growing up.") The benefits are great but the pay is relatively low and the job's monotony is only infrequently punctuated by brief moments of challenge. It's mostly the same every week; every day; every hour. This is especially true when one's days are spent working alone. The dullness is caustic.

Yet. In two and a half weeks I'll sit at my desk for the last time. I'll turn off my computer for the last time. I'll say goodbye for the last time. Endings are wrenching.