I’ve never been a lover of routine, or structure just for the sake of it. And boredom? For me, there could be no greater form of death. At seven-years-old, I looked around me and saw that most of the adults in my life were stuck in routines, trudging through their lives, going to work at jobs they didn’t like and making everyone else around them miserable because of it.

Of course, the nearer it came to Fridays, everyone’s mood would lighten. The weekends were fun and festive, but as Sunday evening approached, that old gray feeling would soon manifest and mushroom into the atmosphere like a cumulonimbus cloud pregnant with rain.

All the adults around me were stuck at jobs they didn’t like and in routines that I believe slowly killed them, or made them act irrational. They were stuck in Rutsville.

I made a promise to my seven-year-old self that I would never live a life of routine, and that I would only do work that I at least liked, and preferably, enjoyed. If I had to work for the rest of my natural life, I knew that work couldn’t feel work. It needed to be fun, and it needed to subsidize my lifestyle, which, except for eating out (I’m sometimes allergic to cooking), has always been pretty modest. I never had a car payment until I was well into my ’40’s. I’ve always lived beneath my means (at least until I went to grad school). My best stage clothes have usually come from resale or consignment shops for a fraction of what others paid. And I’ve always been okay with that.

Many people in my life have criticized me for having such a childlike and ‘irresponsible’ attitude toward work. Some adults would quip, “A job is a job. Where is it written that you have to like it?” Of course as an adult, I understand where all that flak came from. Back then, Black people were thankful to just have a job. Liking it was never a consideration.

And that promise? With only two exceptions, I’ve kept it. So earlier this year when I saw that cumulonimbus cloud threatening to burst, I knew I couldn’t deflect, justify or lie to myself any more.

Upon reflection, I realized that as for teaching, I’d had little gas left in the tank for a while. In the moment, in front of my classes, it was business as usual. But I was slower to answer emails and less patient when it came to explaining things to my students. Writing a letter of recommendation, or completing a reasonable request by an administrator sent me reeling. Teaching an overload of classes to keep my head above water had taken its toll. I couldn’t do it anymore. In truth, I was burned out. I was just going through the motions. And the thought of trying to figure out how to make ends meet in-between semesters again (as adjuncts do) just crushed me. What I was locked in was beyond routine. I was lost, deep in Rutsville.  But I remembered my promise and vowed to get myself out. 

There’s one month left in 2018. I’m in a serious routine, but I’m not in a rut. The promise led to me nabbing a job in the recreation and entertainment industry. I do not look forward to the daily commute, but no two days are the same. I actually like what I do, and my colleagues and supervisor are cool. The corporate culture is very laid back, and most days I’m left to myself to make magic. And the money? I actually take home a bit less per paycheck, but the check is year round and unlike my teaching job, there’s a full benefits package to go along with it. Plus, there’s no more lesson planning or paper grading. I prayed for a job that I could leave at the job, and my prayer was answered.

It took a lot of courage to make that move; to apply, to go through the interview process, to leave a career that I once loved so much that I uprooted myself out of a foreign country and comfortable lifestyle to earn the privilege to be a part of it. And now? There are days I don’t recognize my life. Some days I still ask myself “What have I done?” Yet even after all the questioning, I am so grateful that I kept my promise to myself. I moved out of Rutsville.