Wherein I cease employment as Life & Style Editor
By Laurel Borrowman, Life & Style Editor
“Let’s do the mega-happy ending!”
-Garth to Wayne, Wayne’s World 2
I’ve typed and deleted about 1,500 words so far while trying to write this final piece as Life & Style Editor for The Other Press. I think it’s because I feel like I should be leaving with a big wa-bam, imparting a bunch of life-altering, groundbreaking advice indicative of my wealth of wisdom accumulated over the past 14 months of me mothering this section. Unfortunately, it’s not like that. I haven’t magically become a genius through a series of pivotal a-ha moments. Because life is just that: a series of anticlimactic events. The anticipation will nearly kill you, from beginning to end, but whenever you get there—wherever this illusive “there” is—you’re going to find out that once you’re there, it’s often not that big of a deal.
Maybe that’s my big nugget of wisdom right there.
In fact, I’m leaving because I’ve simply deemed 2013 the year of being sane, which is pretty boring. Last year I said yes to everything, and this year it’s time to pare down, choose quality over quantity. It means cutting down from three to two jobs. The Other Press has served me well as a fertile training ground, and now it’s my time to move on and pass the torch onto the lovely Sophie Isbister, in whom I am confident of taking Life & Style to the upper echelons of awesome.
In closing, I leave you with this, the best and only way to summate everything in my most favourite way: a list.
My favourite things about working for The Other Press, in no particular order, written in Sarcastic Sans:
- Working for two editors-in-chief who were uncouth, unaccepting, mean, dumb, and not very funny.
- A collective of contributors and co-workers who were uncouth, unaccepting, mean, dumb, and not very funny.
- The entire wall in the office dedicated to displaying the two dozen or so most tasteful vinyl covers from yesteryear.
- A very poorly designed print publication.
- No room for creative control.
- A few dozen people who I will never think about or miss or care to see or work with in any capacity ever again ever. Even if there’s a fire.