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That’s what I want.

Pure, simple — the other side.

I’m just not going to get it.

It was like this when it all started, this not-working thing.  I taught a summer class, 2 days a week for six weeks.  Even when that finished, during the early days of listlessness my summer pay was stretched over the course of the entire academic summer.

Slow and flat.

That’s not what I wanted.  I wanted a climactic, if not cataclysmic, break.  Overworked one day.  Daytime home singing in your underwear the next.

Whatever, I’ve never been an underwear-only guy, not even when I was single.

In the very same way, I had hoped my return to the world of the employed would be grand and triumphant — not so much in the details, but in the style.

I guess that’s for private sector people, or something.  People who get cabinet posts and press conferences.

Today, I signed an acceptance letter for a new job.  A non-academic, non-teaching, very-much-arts job.

It came following an offer that arrived in its first form, twelve days ago.  This for a job I applied to months ago, that I first interviewed for a month and a half ago.   I’ll start on January 12, my birthday.

It’s good.

It’s positive.

It’s not cathartic.

The first time I was in Tokyo, in 1999, I rode a roller coaster that ran alongside a public transit rail line.  While we twisted, turned, dropped, and climbed, we could watch them plod along, flat and even, on their way to work, I guess.

Now I know how they must have felt.

It’s OK.  It is in fact, on my way to work that I needed to be getting.

And that’s that.

Mrs. Meteechart and I are going to Boston for Xmas.  We don’t know anyone there — we’re going because she’s never been and I like the place.  This time of year, it seems, we enjoy most being a family of just two.  It’ll be nice to be somewhere cold.  I still have trouble acknowledging that people refer to December in DC as “winter”.  And, yes, we’re taking the train.

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