Incoming

“Hello?” I said, rolling over in bed to answer the phone. It was 7 and I had decided to have a bit of a late morning since I’d been up late answering email last night.

“OK,” I said, waking up and responding to the relocation consultant’s suggestion that I not have a mold inspection if the buyers didn’t want one. It would open up new costs and it was best to leave it alone if they didn’t request a more thorough inspection. “Wait,” I said as I grew increasingly conscious. “I’m not comfortable with that – I’m not selling a moldy house without fixing it, so the specialist will be in this morning.”

“I know – that’s fine,” I replied once more when informed they wouldn’t cover the costs. I thanked her for her advice and hung up.

“Hi, Realtor,” I offered an hour later, sitting in my hotel room answering more email from home. “What’s up?” I waited while he spoke, grinning when he indicated it was mildew, not mold. He guessed they were in the same family and there were lots of scientific terms he didn’t understand, but he’d send a ‘no mold!’ letter this afternoon.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll get a check to your specialist – he saved me thousands of dollars.” I frowned when Realtor said he didn’t want money. I wanted to give him something, but Realtor said he’d throw referrals his way when people needed water damage repaired.

I made it to work – replying to emails, taking meetings and getting several tasks completed. I waved when a woman stopped by my office, motioned to the phone in my hand and shrugged apologetically. She returned in 10 minutes and I mouthed an apology and said I’d come find her before she nodded and closed my door behind her. I continued to jot down notes and paged through documents as the conference call went on and on and on.

I wrinkled my nose when a new email appeared. I’d been steadily responding to new messages, giving the call the amount of attention it needed. I’m locked in a small battle of wills with one of my colleagues and her endless business questions bore and irritate me. It’s a complicated situation – of which I’ve already said too much – but I’m coped by distracting myself with email.

The new message was from Best Journal. I’d submitted to them thrice before, each time failing to receive high enough reviews to make it past the first round. Given that my two other papers have been summarily rejected, I didn’t expect this one to do better. And so, I thought lightly, die my dreams of getting in Best Journal. Then I glanced at the first line and blinked. Instead of the typical regret, the editor was expressing pleasure. This editor never writes to me with pleasure, so I leaned closer and ignored the voices on the phone, reading more carefully that my paper got in. They want revisions and I didn’t even glance at the requests, but my paper got in!

“I got a paper in Best Journal,” I told a visiting R&D guy who arrived for a meeting after the call finally ended. I’d just met him, but – as is typically the case for me in Industry – I liked him a great deal. He raised his hand and I grinned before slapping it with mine, giggling with a sense of euphoria that I’d actually written something that made it past some of the tougher reviewers in my field. “I’ve always wanted to get published there, and I did it!” He grinned at me and I smiled back eagerly before adding, “When it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

I quickly changed the subject, asking about various items that demand our common interest. I made notes and added lines to spreadsheets, then I quietly packed up some papers I wanted to read at home and left.

I blinked back tears on the way to the car. I’d been so pleased that I had nary a regret about leaving academia. It never appreciated me, I thought. Treated me badly and made me feel worthless. But this is like getting a perfect letter from an ex-boyfriend. One where he says how pretty and wonderful and smart I am. And, really, it’s just a random thought – it doesn’t mean much – but it rekindles enough old feelings that I’m desperate to return to the familiar comfort of the relationship. And so, given this acceptance, I miss academic research. I thought longingly of my co-authors and ways to expand the project. I realized I’m going home next week – will see Friend and the house I loved and all my precious stuff that I’ve so missed.

And I’m afraid things are going to get rocky. I’m worried that I’m going to start second guessing and wondering if I made the wrong call. I don’t want to feel trapped, but after I move, there isn’t really any more ‘work until I get my new house!’ Rather it’s just ‘work.’ Day after day, week after week. And though I do like my job, how much of that is the challenge of learning? Once established, what if I’m bored? What if I can’t survive the northern winter? What if I get lost in my big house? What if I would have been happier doing academic research?

I’m trying to remind myself of the mold. Much worry over nothing – if I’d just waited for the right information rather than fretting so much, I’d have saved myself considerable emotional distress. But, I’m me. So now I’ll just worry over the job choice instead of water damage.