Personally, I hate weekends off. When I’m off during the week, I can get more things done. The kids are in school, the stores aren’t crowded, and I can do what I need to do quickly and painlessly. Friday and Saturday weren’t terribly busy this time, but Friday was consumed with a raging migraine, and Saturday found me helping Mrs. Earp rearrange the kitchen and moving a large chest of drawers into the garage.
All those busybody events – plus a trip to the gym – consumed my day, and I completely forgot yesterday marked twenty-six years as a police officer. Normally I wouldn’t even bother mentioning this, but it’s effectively the beginning of the end. I filled out my DROP paperwork yesterday, it’ll be sent out tomorrow, and in four years, I’ll be able to leave this job forever.
Truth be told, I’m feeling melancholy about it, if only because this is all I’ve done for nearly thirty years. Finding a new job will be a frightening proposition, because this job has been relatively safe – at least until the June riots. Despite the True Detective Stories, I still enjoy what I do, but the job has changed; as has people’s perspective of policing.
I could have stayed longer, but in the past seven months, I have seen far too many coworkers losing their careers – or being arrested – for simply doing their job. The insane minority controls the narrative in America, and the politicians kowtow to their every whim. Thanks, but no thanks.