When I am offered this job, it is 2012 and I am a few days shy of my 28th birthday. As acquaintances learn of my new gig I receive many congratulations on landing a job I can “retire from.” It is such a horrifying thought I almost don’t accept the offer.

I value longevity. I am a long term commitment kind of guy but staying in a job from 28 to whatever retirement age is when I get there…I can’t fathom it. I certainly can’t understand why people are so excited about this as a prospect for me.

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I come from a non-profit where I worked for five and a half years. The walls of my office were buttercup yellow, the light coming through the window turns the red movie theater carpet brown. On our way in the door each morning we stop to briefly chat with several coworkers. We look forward to seeing one another. We share openly about our lives. We know the names of each other’s partners, children, their ages and interests. I don’t wonder where my coworkers are when they weren’t at their desks, I don’t even check their calendar. I know where they are because they told me about the meeting they were heading to, what they hoped to accomplish, what they were concerned could go wrong and when they should be back. I remember because I am invested in the outcomes. Not because they necessarily impact my work, but because this colleague is important to me and I want success for them.

The warmth of the walls, the conversation, and the shared mission culminates a sense of family. A family who bore witness to the beginning and end of my first marriage. A matriarch who granted permission when a colleague, who would later become my wife, asked me on a date. A family who expected me to succeed so I never stopped trying to surpass their expectations.

It isn’t that you can’t plant wheat in the same field every year, it is just that after so many years the nutrients become sub-optimal and both the field and the crop need a change.

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I worry I am not ready to leave the comfort of belonging, the familiarity of the scenery. I begin to cry as I leave the last day. And, perhaps from lack of crying practice or maybe the complexity of the emotions of this moment, it is, what I refer to as a “donkey cry.” Yes, the kind where one cries so profusely that other basic functions get out of sync and soon breathing turns into braying, like a donkey. It is deeply embarrassing. When my former colleagues and I see one another we do not mention these final moments. I appreciate their discretion.

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