The Upside of Quitting

Quitting.

sigh.

Quitting.



Quitting has been on my mind.  A lot.  So this was probably the worst time (but maybe the best?) to stumble on a podcast called, "The Upside of Quitting." I feel drawn to the edge, tempted to the precipice.  You see, "The upside of quitting" is not just any old podcast, it's an economics podcast.  One of the best ways to get my attention is to show that something makes economic sense.

In economics we talk about a few different kinds of costs.  Pertinent to this conversation: sunk costs and opportunity costs.  You've heard the old adage "No use crying over spilled milk."  Well, the spilled milk is a sunk cost.  It's the time/money/effort/emotion that you've already invested in something that you can't get back.  And opportunity costs?  Those are what you're giving up in other opportunities in order to take the opportunity you have.  That is to say, "you can't have your cake and eat it, too."  To put it another, more contextual way, I can't be in Colombia and the United States at the same time.  One opportunity is obtained only at the cost of the other.  But back to quitting.

The sunk costs of this experience are, well, sunk, and that makes them inherently unworthy of talking about.  I guess they weren't as pertinent to the conversation as I thought.  As for opportunity costs, though, that's a whole different story.  If I were to quit, say, at the end of this semester, I could be back in the United States for North America's summer.  It's a great time to be in the US, for several reasons.  One, I could probably find a seasonal job while I re-evaluate some things, which would look a lot like putting a little money in the bank and getting my sorry self out into the mountains for some R&R.  Two, summer in Montana (I think that's where I would go) is beautiful.  Three, the direct cost of being in Colombia is (potentially) my continuing emotional health.

On the other hand, quitting has an opportunity cost as well.  If I left Colombia, I'm not sure how I would feel about myself having quit.  Assiduousness and perseverance have become so ingrained in me that I'm not sure I'll feel any better about anything, having to live with the idea that I left something unfinished.  Next, my leaving early is a cost to a project that I think is really worthwhile.  I might not be the best EFL teacher ever, but I'm the only EFL teacher here.  What I'm giving these students is something they don't have otherwise, something that can drastically improve their professional futures, something they need.  Quitting doesn't just mean letting myself down.  It also means letting them down.  Another cost: I've looked at some graduate level programs in economics, and found one I think I might be interested in, especially because there is a fellowship available for it.  But, to be eligible for the fellowship you have to have served for a year in a developing country.  If I leave before my commitment is over here, I cost myself that future opportunity.

How does this all turn out?  Well, I've been thinking about quitting, and thinking about staying, and thinking about quitting, and thinking about staying, and at the moment, I just don't know.  The opportunity cost of staying is short term, the opportunity cost of leaving is long term.  The direct cost of staying is long term (potentially) and the direct cost of leaving is just a plane ticket.

There's an interesting website up right now, "freakonomicsexperiments.com" where the guys at Freakonomics (the authors of "the upside of quitting") will flip a coin for you.  If my indecision gets any worse, which is to say, if I get any closer to the quitting inclination, I may have to let them flip a coin on my future.  For now, though, I guess I'll just keep on keepin' on.

If you're interested in the podcast (I really recommend it), it's called Freakonomics Radio, and you can find it on iTunes and Stitcher.com

Alex

about moments...

There’s something comforting about how the daylight fades here.  It’s easy to notice those evenings when the sun burns out in flames of glory at the day’s end, but here, lately, there’s been no glory.  The sun gets lower, and lower, and casually sinks behind the clouds that hover along the mountains like my dad used to sink into his rocking chair while the History Channel droned on in the back of his mind.  From one horizon to another the light fades from orange to pale grey, blue and violet, and it would be hard to even say when the day has finally ended.  When is it really dark?  Does it happen at 5:45 when the orb of the sun no longer lingers in plain view?  Is it 6:20 when the heavens are the violet pastel of a Monet masterpiece and you can just make out the jungle on the far side of the pastures?  Is it 7:00 when the stars peek out and the lights come on around campus?  Does it even matter?  For me, the best part of day’s end is when I’m walking from my office to the cafeteria, when I’ve finished my classes (usually), and the world feels stuck between day and night, caught in a twilight that refuses to relinquish one to the other.  It’s a perpetual in-between moment, an in-between moment that isn’t actually in-between anything.  It exists without any other moments framing it.  It is a moment that denies its own moment-ness, even if only for the moment that it lasts. 

I love these sunsets for themselves, for just being what they are, but as I sit here writing about them, I wonder if there isn’t an interesting metaphor wrapped up in it all.  Isn’t it always the problem that our in-between moments in life are uncomfortable times of uncertainty, anxiety, even fear?  And doesn’t it always feel like those in-betweens will last forever?  But then you blink and magically, somehow, they’ve disappeared.  Just like the twilight, they feel as though they’ll never end, interminable moments separating one time from another.  Eventually, and only when you stop looking long enough to eat dinner from a plastic bowl while sitting at a plastic table, the twilight changes itself into a night sky powdered with brilliantly shining stars.  And now that I think about it, one of the strangest things about those in-between moments is that there’s nothing to mark their passage.  In the day we have the sun to remind us how time marches on, and at night the stars give their guiding light, but at dawn and dusk what is there?  Just the breeze, the smell of the jungle, and the promise that no moment can ever be anything more than what it is, instantaneous and immeasurable.