I am leaving the mothership!
This. Could. Be. It.
This could be THE last week.
I feel like FN-2187 ready to defect the First Order to join the Resistance.
Ready to leave the secure, regimented, highly paid and mind numbing swim lanes of the evil empire that swallows every industry it targets leaving behind a trail of unemployed small businesses and convenience addicted consumers.
Yes, I am immensely thankful to the good bosses and colleagues who believed in me and helped me along the way.
But. They too have sadly drank the cool aid. They have looked in the eyes of Medusa (a.k.a. stock options) and have handed their lives over, working 14 hours a day, at least 6 days a week.
I tried to be that personâŠtwiceâŠthat too in separate decades.
I deserve kudos just for that (vigorous self patting).
Hence, I feel like I am about to defy gravityâŠÂ AGAIN.
Yes, because I had left this mothership five years ago, only to return to it four years ago, only to realize that if I donât quit it one last time, I will be liquified and added to the giant flywheel that the big man set in motion 25 years ago.
Conventional wisdom (a.k.a. Mom, Dad and Sis) will never condone this step. But the Revolutionaries (a.k.a. wife) will say, âWhen exactly do you plan to stop pretending and become a normal human being outside of the 10 minutes on a Sunday morning?â
Like FN-2187, I now want to be called Finn or Rajat, though Finn sounds way more polished (note to self, consider changing name to Finn).
To get my personality back and to finally pursue my dream, unapologetically, fearlessly.
Am I too old for all this shit? Of course.
Will I inevitably fail? Maybe but who knows, I might just surprise myself.
Will I be a miserable 70 year old, lamenting a life spent kneeling at altar of prime Gods? HELLÂ NO.
Today, I stop being a miserable grump just because I have to stare at a glowing rectangle. Just because I have to explain why we are not selling more Cashews. America is the most Obese country in the world. It doesnât need more and cheaper Cashews.
Bob doesnât need to eat more Cashews. Trust me. I have been there.
So you want to quit. Now what?
Now I feel like the motley fishtank crew that helped Nemo escape and then ended up in the ocean, still wrapped in plastic bags.
Now, the games begin.
I still havenât informed Conventional Wisdom (see above).
Once the high priests of Conventional Wisdom are informed about my decision, all hell will break loose.
âHow could you do this?â, âYou will starve.â, âHow will you feed your family?â.
Well no, lets rewind.
They will be âsupportiveâ for like 18Â minutes.
And then, so âwhat now?â.
âWhatâs your plan?â, âWhere will you apply?â, and my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE âSon, what will be your package?â.
Dear Conventional Wisdom,
I have no plan. I will first recover from the PTSD of selling stuff to people they donât need.
And then I will put my life back in order.
I am done living the life that I âSHOULDâ be living.
I will now live the life that I am âMEANTâ to be living, one that I will never want to run away from.
A life not punctuated with selective brilliance in a revolving door of jobs but of perennial and effortless greatness.
Your Son,
Rajat