Plucked for the 78th time

In which our Hero munches olives and triscuits and regrets a little more

[BonnieRose] suggested we make something of a garden/art project out of our OpenDiary by setting down regrets to be buried with the rest of the site. I’m intrigued by the idea. At the same time, some of those are great stones buried deep, and I don’t know that I want to disinter them. What if there’s unprocessed hurt there?

I think that regrets are like pickles.

Not specifically dill pickles though the metaphor applies, but I just mean pickles in the general “preserved stuffs” sense of the word. Some pickles are fast, like they only need a splash of salt like the kiss of tears, and they’re ready, flavourful and bright in your mouth. But some pickles are slow, taking time to go from their original flavour to the salt-and-vinegar laced end. Before their ready, they’re not the original item, but they’re not the pickle yet either. It’s like sipping strawberries from a jar of olive brine, definitely flavoured, but definitely not pickles.

My reasoning here is that some things aren’t regrets right away. Some things aren’t even bad yet, not negative, not sour, not harsh. The punchline is still hanging out there, the understanding weighted with age. The salt of life. So here’s a jar of cucumbers to make this impromptu pantry varietous (which should totally be a word), and maybe some day I’ll know what it meant.

Two years ago, my contract client approached a few of us to discuss hiring us full-time. We had misgivings, but I believe in considering possibilities, and at the end of the exercise, they made an offer for my services that was perfectly adequate to the needs of my life but hardly complimentary to my ego or anywhere near commensurate with what I was already making from them.

This past year end, they terminated the contract for my brother-by-another-mother Hollywood, and my neck is on the block come March. The job market is vibrant, but insular and my peculiar spectrum of skills makes me a shiny red apple in Flatland. The achievable options are compromises, big commutes, less pay, unengaging work, or just lacking the considerable flexibility I have earned through long hard service, quality worth and magnificent indifference to consequence.

The question formulates itself thus: Should I have taken the proffered job, and in so failing to do so, have I acquired a jarred, salted pickle jar of future regret?

I do not know my answer. I believe, fundamentally, that my job is not just my assignment but to do what it takes to get the job done. I believe that as much as arrogance as I carry, I am still a contracted helper, a transient in the field, and pride should not guide my decisions. Equally, I am burdened with glorious obligation undertaken so long ago, that My Fair Wages, I shall take, and I am not just another contractor, just another resource.

But honour is easy when your stomach is full, and harder when your bank balance hits apogee and starts ticking downwards. Hollywood is in month two of his job hunt with little to show for it, and the big wide world is scary and dark under a seemingly Chthonic future. Will I look back and say, if I’d only chewed down my pride, I’d have employment for a chaser? Or is will enough? Can I have, do I have enough faith in myself and my skill and my worth and my ability to continue to convince others of those same things, to say, that while I might need to humble myself, it’s not that day yet. I’m not obsolete, I’m not too old, I’m not too set in my ways.

So it’s Tinkerbell in a jar of saltwater, and when that jar is opened, either I’ve clapped my hands enough to find a fairy or I’m getting a mouthful of pickled pixie remorse.

I’ve already put contact information into a more official farewell to this place. Everything since that entry is just doodling in the notebook because there are a few pages left. Just in case, though, good bye.