It’s been damn near fifteen years since I’ve had a real, family style Thanksgiving. Not the quick drive by, not the “hey, good to see you” with one plate and a handshake. I mean the whole thing. The kind where you actually settle in, laugh until your stomach hurts, and remember what it feels like to be around people who knew you before you were tired and responsible.
This year I went to Houghton Lake via Grand Rapids and played third wheel with my brother and his family, and it was exactly what I needed. I got to unwind, laugh with my brother, and see the people I actually enjoy seeing around the holidays, or at least the ones who were available. Real talk, I doubt I’ll ever have all my people in one room again in my life, so I’m taking the win when it shows up. There was amazing food (thanks Jerry), some memorable moments, plenty of garage and car time, and way too much snow, because Michigan doesn’t do “a little.” Best part, my brother is healing up well from his twenty five foot ladder fall, which still sounds fake when I say it out loud. I don’t know what I’d do without that dude, I just wish he’d quit trying to beat me to the grave.
Then life came back off the top rope the Tuesday after the holiday. My company let me go. No warning. The project I was running is done, and I became disposable in somebody’s capitalistic little worldview. They gave me a decent severance, better than the weak offer they floated a year ago when they last tried to pull this stunt, but still. I’m jobless for the first time in fifteen years, and it’s a sucky feeling. Also, no, I wasn’t exactly well liked. Shocking, I know. Apparently challenging the norms and refusing to be a yes man doesn’t win you popularity points. I make professional enemies because I want things done correctly. Some folks respect that. Others would rather die on a stupid hill than fix the problem.
The good news is I wasn’t asleep at the wheel. I’d already been dipping my toes into the job market, and I have a consulting opportunity on the table with a few friends I’ve worked with before. That matters, because this isn’t some random gig I can take and then bail on when the house sells. That would be a party foul. During the interviews I committed to a minimum of a year, and most likely two, because I’m not going to screw over people I respect just because my timeline gets spicy. The problem is I’ve been working on leaving the USA for almost two full years, so agreeing to another one or two years feels like watching the finish line move. On top of that, the housing market is sliding fast and I’ve lost over forty grand in equity in the last six months. That doesn’t stop me from selling the house, but it absolutely shrinks the amount of time I can float myself in Uruguay, which is the whole damn point of the plan.
But here’s the twist. This consulting job might actually be the bridge, not the derailment. It gives me the chance to do the digital nomad thing I seriously considered during COVID. Buy a fifth wheel and a truck, live like a civilized drifter, and roll around visiting friends and family who actually want me to show up. And the best part is I can be onsite for consulting gigs if I need to be without living in another hotel. I did one hundred and ten nights at Marriott this year alone. One hundred and ten. I am sick of hotels. I’m sick of the beige rooms, the thin walls, the sad little breakfast, and paying premium prices to feel like I’m sleeping in a corporate waiting room. If I can have my own space, my own bed, my own setup, and still do the work, that’s not a downgrade. That’s sanity.
And since my life apparently needs to stay interesting, I’ve also got vacation plans coming up that I’m not canceling just because corporate America decided to be dramatic. I’ve got a trip to Uruguay locked in, and this time it’s not just me daydreaming on Google Maps, it’s boots on the ground. I’m handling real world stuff, seeing neighborhoods with my own eyes, getting the lay of the land, and making sure this plan is still the plan. If I’m going to pull the trigger on moving countries, I’m doing it like I do everything else. With receipts, backups, and a spreadsheet that could make an accountant cry.
So yeah. I’ve spent most of my life bitching about not having choices, and now I’ve got choices coming out of my ears and I’m stuck in analysis paralysis. Uruguay is still the target. The route might just look different now. Adulting is hard, and the universe has a weird sense of humor, but I’m still moving forward.
Happy Holidays!
Q
Q is a meat Popsicle living in Nashville with hopes and dreams of running away to Uruguay to retire earlier than all his friends. Skilled in the witchcraft of not giving a damn about the Jones’ and filled with a did it or damn it mentality. His thoughts are his own, and he is no role model.
