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Today’s compartment of my angst:  MONEY.

When I was in Iowa, I was making just short of $40k a year, before taxes. I was two years out of college with a degree that doesn’t directly apply to anything, living in an area with a pretty low cost of living. I had a 10-minute drive to work, went home for lunch most of the time, occasionally got bonuses, and paid around $12 a month for awesome health insurance.

So why did I dump that to come to Kansas City for a relationship that no longer exists (I’m not bitching, just throwing it in there for emphasis) and job that isn’t at all what I thought it’d be?

My old job made me miserable. It wasn’t the job itself. I talked to and met a lot of interesting characters. Good folks, bad folks, questionable folks, and everything inbetween; truck drivers are an interesting breed, for lack of a better word. I didn’t mind talking to them. After all, I’m of trucker stock myself – both of my uncles have driven 18 wheelers for a long time, and I’m not exactly from white-collar America.

But my office made me absolutely miserable. It wasn’t even just me – it was probably 80% of us. And I think the remaining 20% loved it. Benefitted from it. Most of that 20% were braindead salespeople who sucked themselves all the way up to lower middle management. But from 7:30am-5pm (usually later) Monday – Friday, I was usually in hell. Exhausted when I came in, pissing away the first two hours, clawing my way to lunch, after which I’d wonder what time we’d be leaving for the day. Around 4:45, I’d learn it’d be closer to 6 than 5. And salary means no overtime.

And you know, I might not have minded spending extra time in the office had the other people I worked with been more fun. But by that time in the afternoon, all of the cool people were feeling pretty beaten down, and that notorious 20% were perched on their high horses, ready to stomp.

During my tenure there I gained roughly 40 pounds, went through at least four antidepressants, got on Xanax, and started therapy. Work wasn’t 100% responsible, but it was a big part. The office bred animosity. So when it came time to think about moving, I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Do I miss the money? Yes. Do I miss the benefits? ABSOLUTELY. Do I miss going there every day? Fuck no.

That being said, the pay cut I took to get down here stung. Since moving out on my own, the sting has triggered an embarassing allergic reaction. I now feel like I’m broke all the time. Rarely do I volunteer to go out anywhere because I don’t want people to realize just how broke I am. I’d sell stuff, but I don’t think I really have anything people want. My benefits aren’t half as good as my old ones, and I’m paying about $175 a month more for them. My job itself isn’t what I thought it would be, and now I’m stuck – I had money saved that I used to move down here, and that money’s long gone.

So what now? My Suze Orman book helped a little. Maybe I’ll look for Mr. Dave Ramsey at the library. My boyfriend’s a financial guru, but I don’t want him to see how much I make and how much debt I have lest he choke – I like him and want him around. My embarassing, muddled pile of crap money situation blows ass and I sure don’t need anyone else seeing it. But it still needs to get fixed.