Two weeks' notice, squared

I took Monday off work to job hunt and yesterday gave my formal notice to quit. December 18th will be my last day. I'm alternating between huge waves of relief to finally be out of this job and quick, jarring pangs of panic about my future. I still don't have a new job locked down yet, but I've put in eight applications around town over the past few days and with the ongoing holiday rush I'm confident something decent will turn up soon. And if it doesn't, well, hard crunches like this are why I've been so frugal. I'd love to spend my savings on electronics, vacations and clothes-- to blow the whole thing on an orgasmic consumerist rampage-- but my parents raised me to be too practical to do that, which I guess I'm thankful for. (To an extent, anyway. My whole life is like that scene in South Park where Kyle can't toss his nunchaku down the well to avoid getting in trouble because he can't bear the idea of having wasted $20 on them. I don't know what the hell they put in the matzah balls when we're little to make us like this, but whatever it is it apparently stays with us for life. [Another anecdote: My boss (also Jewish) and I were given gift certificates to Honey Baked Ham for Christmas, but we're both unable to use them on the grounds that the place is way too expensive-- even though it's not our money being spent. How sad is that?])

On Sunday Evan and I also gave our relationship something of a two weeks' notice. We're taking the next two weeks off to sort out our own lives and then reconvene the Sunday after next to decide whether or not we'll stay together. I have no idea what will happen then, and at this point have no idea what I even want to happen. Things from this point on will at the very least be different.

It's a little disconcerting to think that my whole life could change in two weeks, or not change at all.