16. June 2008 by Bobbi.

A weird thing happened at work. While I was exiting the security screening area, my aluminum cans were confiscated.

My co-workers have been kindly donating all their empty soda cans to my recycling efforts. For the past few months, once a week, I’ve carried the cans out in a small plastic bag with no problem. But suddenly, on Thursday, the rent-a-cops decided I could no longer do that. They’re a security problem, the guard told me.

I didn’t argue. I surrendered my cans and stomped away. My carpooling partner barged into the office and demanded they give them back to me, but to no avail. They told her empty cans are a potential theft device for jewelry and other small items.

 Well, that explains it.

Come to find out, though, there’s a vendor that regularly comes to the company’s facility and hauls away all the recyclables, including aluminum cans.

If you’re an employee, you’re forbidden from recycling. If you’re a vendor , a big company like the one I work for, then it’s okay.

This company has the audacity to tout its so-called sustainability program. How hypocritical. It’s the epitome of greenwashing.

This is just more affirmation that my decision to leave at the end of the month is a well-founded one.

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12. June 2008 by Bobbi.

Things I won’t miss about my corporate job:

1) Windowless offices. The only thing more depressing than sitting at a computer for eight hours a day is sitting at a computer in an office with no windows for eight hours a day.

2) Inconsiderate managers. These are the guys (and gals, for that matter) who think you have no better way to spend the day than to sit waiting for them in their windowless office. They don’t bother calling to let you know they’re running an hour late. They don’t ask their secretary to track you down. No “Gee, sorry,” no “Suck my toe,” as my co-worker likes to say – nothing. Just a wasted afternoon and none of the information you need to send out that memo.

Okay, this list could get a lot longer, but there’s something else on my mind. The fantasy ending to my 16-year career. That’s where I go storming into peoples’ offices, flip them off, tell them what I really think about them and march off property as though it was all a spontaneous act.  

Thanks for listening.  

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11. June 2008 by Bobbi.

I’ve put in 16 years with a Fortune 500 company, and in 16 days I’ll be gone. I’m calling it an early retirement. Twelve years early. Working in a corporate capacity while attempting to get back to basics has slowly poisoned my soul. I can’t do it anymore. 

My friends are all cheering me on. Even new acquaintances think it’s an admirable thing to do, giving up this madly materialistic life, the rat race cycle of earn and spend, and taking back my time. For me, it’s wildly liberating, almost as good as quitting smoking. But there are still these fears I wrestle with–the fear that my husband will get hurt or fall ill and won’t be able to make an income to support us–the fear that I’ll miss having a car–the fear that I’ll feel unproductive, useless, worthless, even though I’ll be busy growing my own food, composting our waste, recycling and salvaging, cooking our meals and making the things we need. What will be the value of my work when no one pays me to do it?

My father was a union man at a time when labor unions still held some respect in this country. He was an airline mechanic, and as kids, we considered it a glamorous job. My siblings, our mother and I were frequent flyers, traveling on standby to visit relatives in Pittsburgh. At the airport, everyone knew Dad. They tipped their hats to him in his white shirt and blue uniform pants. He would see us to the gate, kiss our foreheads and stroll off down the terminal, nodding and waving to his many acquaintances.

Dad took what was called an early retirement at age 62 and had his first stroke a couple years later. He lost his speech eventually, got it back a time or two. In one of those lucid moments, he looked at me, bleary-eyed, and wondered aloud, “This is what I worked for all my life?”

At that point, I’d been at my corporate job about a year. I was 27. It would be another 12 years before I fully realized the gravity of what my father said. By then, he would dead, and I would be quickly slipping away.

This was the first seed, planted by my father. And now here I am, 16 days to go. Wish me luck! 

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