Your Work Is Not Your Worth
Why I gave up a six-figure salary to find happiness
I used to be fancy. A bold-faced title, a six-figure salary, and a Brooklyn prewar brownstone. Business cards that would drive Patrick Bateman to wield a chainsaw down five flights of stairs. Ink still wet on equity partnership papers. I had a towering inferno of pretty finery. Supple kidskin leather handbags imported from Italy and London, stacks of handknit sweaters, sapphire glitter heels that cost more than monthly mortgage payments — pristine and unworn because I liked the look of all my pretty, expensive things but rarely handled them. All because I had a job, a career, a title, and a paycheck that was slowly killing me.
No one tells you about the weight you gain because you’re chained to your desk working on a deck into the late evening, cozying up to SeamlessWeb. You wake and sleep to the hum of fluorescent lights. You type type type while kind women empty your trash. You cry in bathroom stalls. When you have to fire people, you’re trained to parrot, “It’s a business decision.” Even when the person’s — whose life you’ve temporarily ruined — hands quake. Your boss tells you it gets easier, and you suspect he’s a sociopath because it never gets easier.
But no matter. Your co-workers click click click and this gets you thinking that it’s been months since…
