The last days of Caligula
I like to think that in this analogy I am not Caligula. I’m more like… Caligula’s familial consul. To be completely fair, my appreciation and indeed understanding of Roman bureaucracy comes mostly from reading the heady tales of Asterix and Obelix, so this potentially rambling post might not be based on a completely sound historical interpretation.
Caligula went insane and the last days of his rule, before his assassination, things in Rome had gone decidedly downhill. In my mind there was a consul, trying to keep things (vaguely) together… and clearly not doing a great job. Although historically I’m not sure if this true…
This might be sounded out as being flippant. Its my defense mechanisms forming a bulwark to protect my mind from emotions that might potentially bubble up to surface… despite the ironclad trapdoor, held down various bits of furniture, including a baby grand piano and the ubiquitous acme anvil.
Eventually they decided there was only really one option left, and like many end games in Roman politics, it involved Mr. Pointy at an intimate, visceral range.
I suppose the above is all a bit obscure since it lacks context.
I closed down my company on Friday. I also did it in particularly brutal way, blindsiding everyone an hour before home time. People that have worked for me nigh on twenty years having their legs chopped out from under them.
I suppose their is nuance to this story. And a whole whack of backstory… that I can’t be bothered to rehash. Its done. And I’m done.
I am officially unemployed. Well… kinda. A company does not just cease to be just because I willed to die. There are assets to be disposed of. Stock to liquidate. Creditors to pay. The taxman likely wants his pound of flesh. These things don’t happen overnight. So I imagine this in fact some sort of weird purgatory that I should endure for my sins (which are both heinous and numerous)
I can however do this remotely and I suppose in an ad hoc manner from home and will no longer have to step over the threshold seeking remuneration at the end of a commute.
I have mentioned to some of my friends that I will endeavor to become a house-husband henceforth. Those to whom I have mentioned this have intimated some sort of profound skepticism. I like to think this is because they know how much talent and drive I have and that life in the domicile will drive me to frustration and self harm. But really they know its because I will play PlayStation and stuff my face-hole all day, and none of them believe my wife would allow this.
My wife is universally respected and radiates as a paragon of efficiency and work ethic. Her deadbeat husband, not so much.
So given that ambling aimlessly around the house, snuffling in the refrigerator and maybe getting into this Netflix phenomenon is not on the cards… I probably have to reshuffle the deck and come up with something more, if not respectable, then in the very least something I communicate to the parents of my offspring’s friends when they ask me on the birthday party circuit what I do for a living…
I should probably also admit that I am a little bit concerned. Sane people don’t nuclear option their lives at 40. That smacks of mid-life crises and a deep-seated psychological disquiet that burning everything down to the ground will reveal in all its stark, charred glory.
On the flip side if I carry on with this soul destroying grind, checking off milestones on my ten step life I am already dead. So then, whats the point. Which sounds dramatic, now that I re-read it… some days this feels more true than other days. I want to do something different. Something less formulaic and blah.
Or you know, at least die trying.