Free Cancel the Wedding by Carolyn T. Dingman

imposed its squatter’s rights on my life.
    When I finished my undergraduate degree in art history, I imagined myself in the depths of some museum somewhere restoring great works of art. Probably in one of the smaller more remote cities of Eastern Europe, because I was oh so tragically hip. Or maybe teaching? I thought I could work at the university with my mother, mentoring brilliant but misguided youths. She in the history department, me in the art department. But then again I could barely manage my niece and I had known her for her whole life. And Logan could be a real pain in the ass. Maybe mentoring wasn’t really up my alley.
    But there would definitely be coffee. In my mind I was always holding a steaming mug of coffee while inspiring the minds of today’s youth or clearing away the dust from long-forgotten masterpieces. Hopefully I was someplace cold while OD’ing on all this fantasy coffee.
    Fantasy was a good word for it because a BA in art history roughly translated into “unemployable, slightly pretentious asshole.”
    After graduating I worked in a coffee shop for almost a year, which was not nearly as mind-altering as one would expect. Then I entered law school. I figured if I was going to be an asshole I might as well get paid for it.
    My first summer break during law school found me interning with a large international construction firm. I was assigned to the Due Diligence Department. It was mind-numbingly boring work researching various codes and ordinances particular to the local area in which a new building was being constructed. They always needed the information yesterday and the pace was insane. And I was really, really good at it. At the end of the summer they offered me a job making a stupid amount of money so I packed my soul into a little shoebox, along with my BA diploma and one year of law school, and tucked them all under my bed. Then I got myself a fancy new wardrobe and a lease on a Range Rover. Full asshole transformation complete.
    That had been almost ten years ago and although I had moved up through the department the only place left to go was the department head. And since that position was currently held by the devil, and the devil wouldn’t die, I was pretty much out of options in that particular firm.
    Elliott said, “I was a structural engineer. What about you?”
    â€œI’m in due diligence with a construction firm in DC. I think I’ve grown to hate it. What made you decide to leave?”
    â€œIt just wasn’t what I wanted to be doing, the work wasn’t interesting anymore, and I hated the deadlines. And I was living in Chicago, so far away from my family.” He shrugged not wanting to elaborate. “I don’t know. The pace of life was just wrong for me. I was miserable.” I felt like he was channeling my reality at the moment.
    â€œBut how did you just up and walk away and then do”—I waved my hands at the house that the newspaper inhabited—“something completely different?” I wasn’t being polite; I really wanted to know how one did that. I was looking for a road map.
    He started slowly rocking his chair. “It wasn’t easy.”
    We talked for over an hour sitting there rocking on his porch. Everything he said about being miserable with the deadlines and the inconsequential work hit a little too close to home. The way he hated Sundays because they were always followed by a Monday, and a job that you hate will always destroy a Sunday. The way his boss would make ridiculous demands and then never acknowledge his team when they were able, somehow, to pull it off. The way the job was intensely boring. I wondered if Ms. Missed Call was playing a role in his discontent but I managed to stop myself before asking him. I did ask him why the newspaper though. Had he always wanted to run a paper? Be a journalist?
    He kind of laughed. “No. I don’t see myself as a journalist. I’m