My Year of Rest and Retirement
What happened when I stopped working and tried to get a life
There’s never been a time in my life when I haven’t worked. I started babysitting at 12 and got my first official job when I was 15, working as a landscaper for a woman who owned a photography studio out in the country. I spent my days weeding flower beds, shoveling dirt, and mowing the lawn. By the end of my first employed summer, I’d developed a very deep farmer’s tan. I came back to high school golden and bronzed, but only on my arms.
I worked all through college. In my 20s and early 30s, I always had more than one job. During the pandemic, when a lot of people were either unemployed or furloughed, I worked for a hospital and my workload increased exponentially, so I didn’t get to take advantage of that whole sit at home and contemplate our existence because we can’t go anywhere period that everyone else seemed to enjoy.
By the time I turned 37, I was tired of working. I needed a nap that rivaled Rip Van Winkle. I wanted to sleep like a character in an Ottessa Moshfegh novel: go to bed for days but somehow still look pretty and become skinny in the process.
So I quit. After a lifetime of burnout and years of working too much, I decided to just…not. I saved up a ton of money over many months and then I bravely put in my two-week notice.
My coworkers had strong reactions to the news that I was quitting voluntarily without another job lined up. I felt like a contestant on a reality show who’d just announced that they were leaving the show early, to the dismay of fans watching at home. I was one of the best employees they had. I was also so stressed about my job that my hair was falling out. If there’s anything that spurs drastic action, it’s my vanity.
Learning the art of doing nothing
At first, not having a job felt so…strange. I went full My Year of Rest and Relaxation, lying in bed and staring at my phone for hours because I had no desire to do anything else. Six weeks into my self-induced corporate abortion, I started to actually want to do things, like, outside.
Following my sloth period, I embarked on a few creative projects, to mixed results:
1. I took some writing classes and now get many more rejections.
2. I started this newsletter, which has a whooping total of 8 subscribers1.
3. I tried—and spectacularly failed—my summer writing retreat.
4. I flirted with men in the wild in an effort to become the MVP of Cuffing Season.
5. I did The Artist’s Way so I could journal all my problems away.
6. I performed a one-woman comedy show just to convince people that I’m hot.
From girlboss to ‘anti-work’ crusader
While all this creative creating has been quite productive, I’ve also spent the last 10 months being turned down for every. single. job. I’ve. applied. to. This includes every full-time job, every part-time job, every contract job, and every opportunity a recruiter has submitted me for. My inbox is full of @noreply emails that begin with “Thank you for applying to [Company]. We’ve carefully reviewed your application and unfortunately, we’d rather eat glass than even consider hiring you.”
When you’re unemployed, you get to spend all your time reading headlines about how bad the job market is right now. You also get to come up with fun responses for when your friends and former colleagues ask, “So, did you get a job yet?”. I like to answer in one of three ways:
“No, I’ve recently rebranded from a ‘girlboss’ to being ‘anti-work’. Frankly, having a job is a very capitalist thing to do—can’t you see that I’m fighting the system by lying on my couch all day?”
“I’m still recovering from the trauma inflicted by my old workplace. I’ve been practicing my ‘resting meeting face’ with a physical therapist, who thinks that I’ll be able to hold a smile instead of sob during a video conference call in no time.”
“Sorry, I’m too busy being hot. Looking this good is a full-time commitment.”
Living, Laughing, and Recovering from Workaholism
Initially, I had so many grand plans for my time off. I thought I was going to spend this period “workin’ on my bod” and write a full novel in 90 days. I was going to start crafting and make things that no one wants, like a needlepoint pillow with the phrase Live Laugh Latte sewn on it.
Although I am now very broke because I stopped being a workaholic and tried to get a life, I don’t regret quitting my job. I don’t miss all the corporate b.s. and emotional labor. I don’t miss having to ‘like’ a coworker’s message on Teams after you just replied to their email.
I guess I’m one of those I work to live, I don’t live to work people now. By live, I mean that I waste a lot of time on the internet and listen to podcasts about D-list celebrities. Hey, I didn’t say I live well. I need at least 10 more months to figure out how to do that.
In all seriousness, I am very grateful to anyone who takes the time to read these silly posts about the comedy that is my life.