Friday, May 8, 2015

When Left is Wrong

Six years ago today, everything changed for me professionally speaking.  

I had marked the transition from Aught-Eight to Aught-Nine by leaving the Firm I had called home for (at that time) eleven years to pursue what had initially appeared to be a "Can't Miss" opportunity but what had proven to be a dreadful, soul-sucking mistake.  An error of colossal proportions as it were.  

I awakened early that morning - as I do every morning - and headed north to Parsippany.  I had grown accustomed to the north/south commute on Route 287 over the course of a decade-plus.  So much so that when I changed jobs, I did not change zip codes.  I merely turned left onto Parsippany Road upon exiting the highway as opposed to turning right.  If my father only knew the full complement of consequences that accompanied that particular decision to turn left, then he might have reconsidered his position on the subject.

As a little boy, I used to think that Dad's goal was to circumnavigate the globe by making left turns. It seemed to me that whenever we were driving somewhere and there was even a smidge of uncertainty concerning how we were to reach our destination from that particular point in the road, Dad would turn left.  Invariably and inevitably, he went left.  It was as if his mantra was "Go Left Or Go Home!

Anyway, my decision to swap a right turn for this particular left turn had proven to be an exceptionally poor one.  By the end of the first week of May - for as luck would have it the calendar in 2015 follows that of 2009 so that year's May 8th was a Friday also - I was resigned to the fact that I had dropped myself into a hole from which I could not extricate myself.  Every day was a carbon copy of the one that preceded and an eerily accurate predictor of the one that would follow behind it. Each one was, indeed, an inferno.  

At some point at or about noon I had a brief yet substantive conversation with my then-former and now-present Partner, Howard, which conversation resulted in me - before I left for home that evening - informing my then-employer that my brief, unspectacular run there was over.  I wrote out a formal letter of resignation so that the Lord of the Mother Ship could be informed of my decision, sent it via e-mail to the Commonwealth and exited...

...through the door on the left of course.  I am nothing if I am not my father's son.  I drove home that night smiling ear-to-ear.   The next day, freed from shackles of my own creation, I wrote this (although this little nugget that I wrote on the penultimate day of my sentence is far more humorous - and with the advantage of six years worth of reflection - also incredibly unfair to the shop I called home during my "Winter at the Reservoir"). 

One needs not work very hard to sell me on the virtue of the second chance.  I am greeted daily in the morning's wee small hours by the mirrored reflection of a man who received one, which he may or may not have been entitled to receive.  One for which he remains very, very grateful. 


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