On Monday, I start a new job. I’ve been working in Vineland for more than half of the last decade; this is my eighth school year in the district. I worked there through the COVID pandemic, trying to figure out how to help teachers deal with virtual instruction.

This week is full of things to do, but it feels different. And not in a bad way. But not in a good way, either.

Every big job switch for me was preceded by my exiting weeks feeling hopeful, excited, and yes, some trepidation. The weeks passed by quickly, as they always do, feeling immediate and momentous in the moments surrounding my resignation, and then a patient wait for the 60-day countdown before my last day.

And there’s always that “what the fuck have I done?” when I get to the new job, and find myself in unfamiliar territory, the world seeming indifferent to my problems.

There’s always the worry that I’ll hit the ceiling of the Peter Principal, too. That is, that you got yourself promoted to the “level of respective incompetence.” There’s the advice a high school principal once gave me, too: “The higher you climb, the more of your ass they can see.” I love that one.

There are always some high-calorie events that accompany departures, too: at my last gig, I was treated to a Mexican lunch and a hibachi dinner. With a nice bottle of scotch, to boot. This week we had administrative professionals day lunch, and I got into some tacos and flan. Tomorrow I’m having tacos(!) for lunch at one of the best spots in Vineland. And there’s a retirement dinner Thursday night. All things to look forward to, and I’m glad I sucked a little more weight off this week to make room.

Things will happen soon. Next week, I’ll be in it. For now, I inhabit the strange interstitial world of a resignee.