Quitting like a Fat Babe does.

 

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Babes. I fucking quit my job. A job I loved. A job I was good at, that I think made a tiny difference. And, let’s be real, a job that paid half the bills and meant that we could have fancy cheese sometimes.

That is some messed up, holy shit, mid life mother fucking crisis business, no?

Rhetorical question – IT IS OBVI WILDLY RECKLESS. Especially for a fat babe with a protestant prairie work ethic. YOU NEVER QUIT A JOB WITHOUT ANOTHER JOB. It is the middle class mantra of prairie people since time immemorial. But I totally fucking did. So there.

Welcome to the party. Confession: by party I mean the exact opposite.

I am fucking exhausted. Babes I’m tired. The kind of tired that makes me want to sleep for days. The kind of tired that makes nothing seem worth getting up for. The kind of tired that often requires expensive therapy and significant life changes. And, y’all, I have been tired for a while. So I quit.

Look it was either quit or lose everything, so the choice was a no brainer. I mean, babes, I pretty much have it all : partner that I love and that I still think is a total babe who is kind and patient and knows how to fix shit, a scrappy kid that is pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me, a couple dirt bag dogs, a mostly un-fucked up family that loves me, enough disposable income to ensure that I look sick as fuck, and a place to lay my head every night – not the worst life. In fact, kind of the best life.

And then there was a moment in time (my fucking birthday if we are going to be specific – which I am) where my S.O. was all ‘get your head out of your ass and engage with the people who love you like you love them back or I am outta here’ – Babes that is the kind of sentence that you fucking pay attention to. And then you fix it.

The reality of my life is that my anxiety has always been a tricky little fucker. And the other truth is that the kind of work that I do is deeply impactful – in all the good ways and all the really fucking bad ways. And then this other shitty thing happened where my crazy went and tied itself to land and humanity and the ways that this planet and her people are so sick. Babes, there is no escape from a sick planet. A lover once said to me ‘i don’t know how you can manage your anxiety when the world is so full of hurt’. She nailed it, babes, how do we manage in a sick world? How do those of us with giant hearts who feel things hard and long and deep stay afloat?

The hard truth is I have no fucking clue. I can’t tell when I am sick and when I am just anxious. I feel like I am dying every single day. I can’t turn off my worry about dying and leaving my little girl, I can’t stop being afraid that she will turn out like her mama, hurting in a world that needs more love and heart and peace than we can give. I can’t stop wondering whether today will be the day when my partner has just had enough of it and walks out the door.

Honestly, babes, anxiety has pretty much meant that I can’t have nice things (or maybe, secret confession, that I don’t deserve them). Or at least that’s how it feels. A lot.

That is why I had to quit the ever loving hell out of my job. Cause this is the kind of wonky brain stuff that fucking destroys lives and I may be crazy but I am not stupid and I was not gonna go down like that. Hell to the fucking no. Cause babes, on my clear days, I know that we are all worth fighting for, I’m worth fighting for fer crissakes. My people and community and this planet deserve a fat, kind hearted, blaspheming warrior femme to bring the noise, the chaos and the motherfucking style.

Now I get that quitting a damn job is maybe a large-ish gesture and that many people just hire a life coach or do yoga or something less, well, drastic. But I am a babe that tends to lean towards the dramatic, the hysterical, the ‘burn it with fire’ approaches to significant life problems. I mean why do anything halfway, amiright?

K, and to be clear i am also fully aware that quitting a job the same day you first think about quitting said job is not just born out of enormous balls and recklessness, but also privilege and a partner who works, so I get that I sound actually ridiculous. But here is the goddamn lowdown: I have until mid February to figure out what the fuck do with myself that will give me energy instead of suck the life out of me. I gotta figure out how to live in this world in a good way for my family and my community.

So the current plan is to start by doing myself a solid and taking some time to chill the fuck out. And from there, I am banking on the fact that adventure awaits.

So I quit. I worked my last day Friday. So that I can live.

First Day at No Work:

Post Work Out:

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My new work has an even more casual dress code than the clinic!

My New Co-Workers and Office:

 

The bar for efficiency and work ethic is extremely low here. Like, if I stay awake and don’t pee on the couch I will have surpassed my colleagues by significant amounts.

 

 

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So babes I’m a gym rat. I go nearly everyday. I elliptical mostly, but I also try to do a circuit once a week and I mix it up with the stationary bike. Surprise, I’m still fat-the fattest I have ever been. Can we all take a moment to let the fact that a solid fat babe like me goes to the gym everyday sink in.

Now, if there was ever a place a fat babe needs armour it is at the gym which is like a honing beacon for body dysmorphic dieters- I just don’t have the heart to tell them that exercise doesn’t make you thin. Not begrudging the skinnies their hangout- it’s cool you are welcome in my gym. Just stop looking surprised to see me here. And I’m not fucking leaving so get into my sweaty fat face already. I stake my ground at the gym because y’all we have a right to be here (if we want) and also because it has become a place that makes me feel really good. 45 minutes out of the day that are gloriously mine and where people aren’t all wanting a piece of me. Fat babes need breaks from the world too and for me I have randomly found it in the gym. Weird.

I love the gym for the following reasons:

1. It keeps my crazy at bay. My near daily gym regimen over the past year has been the single greatest intervention for managing my anxiety-and I have tried a lot of stuff.

2. There is cable tv at the gym. I am obsessed with television to the point where I can’t have it in my home or I would never do anything else. So learning that I can watch reruns of Modern Family (which I know is problematic in nearly every way possible, but hey still funny so what evs) while working out was a goddamn revelation.

3. I have a semi legitimate reason to buy active wear. And I only need semi legitimacy to buy clothes. Let me show you what has me all excited these days:

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On the  model.
 On me: This slouchy top makes me feel like I’m in Fame. I may break into dance at.any.moment.

Also this:

 Those are turquoise and black stripes.Reversible. Here is the pattern on the other side:

 Apparently it’s a bra, but I’m pretty sure it’s a top. Additionelle, we can agree to disagree.

Anyhow, I got these after getting a gajillion gift certificates after buying a winter coat. The lace top (from a previous post), two of these bra things, and the peach shirt cost me 50 bucks total. All these things were regular price so in my opinion overpriced. I don’t believe you should ever pay full price for clothes and additionelle is no exception. Holding out for the buy one get two free or at least a 40%off sale is the way to go.

K, babes a quick caveat: I spent the bulk of this year wearing the same pair of leopard print leggings and tank top to the gym every damn day. And I only just replaced my old hospital nurse runners with a pair that don’t have blood and superbugs all over em. You don’t need activewear to be active- I am just a ridiculous clothes horse who will jump on any excuse to buy shit I don’t need. And well, this is a shameless fashion blog so y’know, grain of salt and all that.

Anyways fat babes, let’s keep taking up space and if you wanna come to my gym with me, I’m down for that, just don’t interrupt me during Ellen.