Nadine Pisani - Happier Than a Billionaire: Quitting My Job, Moving to Costa Rica, and Living the Zero Hour Work Week

Did this just happen? My patient farted on me literally. This one is particularly brutal, and my eyes burn as if sprayed with extra-strength bear mace. Its a whopper. I nonchalantly open the door so my secretary can share in my misery. She came in late today, and there is no better way to punish her than to subject her to a little chemical warfare. There is no time to escape; she folds quicker than an advancing Italian army.

Of course, my patient pretends it wasnt him; they never take responsibility. Im backfired on at least half a dozen times a day, and not once does anyone apologize or say excuse me. They all stare straight ahead and continue complaining about their lousy spouse or deadbeat kid. It makes me want to drink on the jobnot beer or wine, but strictly the top shelf hard stuff. I need maximum inebriation to handle days like this.

God, I hate my job. In fact, I hate it so much that if you love your job I might just hate you, too. This has prevented me from enjoying anyone's happiness lately. I'm at my worst when I collapse on the couch after work and turn on Rachael Ray. She looks so damn happy I want to punch her in the face. What kind of person wants to assault the lovely Rachael Ray?

I shouldn't use the word hate. A word that strong should be reserved for the emotion felt toward dictators, menstrual cramps, and those health conscious people who substitute oil in brownies with applesauce. It's not like I have the worst job. I am a chiropractor, but being one means opening a Pandoras Box at a party, never knowing if someone likes what you do or is prepared to berate you for not being a real doctor. I love the way they say the word real . Like Im trying to pass off that Im the Easter Bunny. Instead, I lie and tell them Im a government administrator. A job so incredibly nondescript that their eyes instantly glaze over as if they just popped 10mg of Ambien.

Knowing that I chose the wrong career makes me feel like I have a Keep On Trucking tattoo on my face. It's permanent, and no matter how many trips I take to the laser clinic, it can't be removed. In order to get through my day knowing Ill spend the rest of my life in this office, Ive taken up reading TripAdvisor.com reviews during my lunch break. Not the gleaming five star winners, but those that are so wonderfully negative. I actually feel better when I read about other people's crappy vacations.

My preferred genre is the bad reviews for luxury hotels, the Ritz-Carlton and Four Seasons being two of my favorites. The idea of someone spending fifteen hundred dollars a night on a room with a broken air conditioner overlooking a bus depot is enchanting. It's almost as good as Googling old boyfriends and discovering theyre unemployed and bald.

Today, a man from London wrote a scathing review of a room where he found a booger on the bedpost. An atrocity so disturbing his wife collapsed to the floor in a fit of hysterics. I find this not at all surprising. The bourgeois are especially unrealistic, and most of their reviews end with a woman collapsing into a deranged mess of unconsciousness. I can understand a sticky snot would be disturbing, but falling into pupil- dilating shock? The horrible nightmare continued when the man found the tiles in the bathroom were made of porcelain instead of marble (an offense easy to discover since he was already on his hands and knees giving mouth-to-mouth to his convulsing wife on the floor). My sister once stayed at a hotel and reclined into an undetermined wet spot on her bed. She didn't lose consciousness once, and we're all but certain the suspicious wet spot was something infinitely worse than a booger on a bedpost.

In addition to reading TripAdvisor reviews, I am experimenting with another method to cheer myself up: wearing bright blue scrubs to work. Mostly because they feel like pajamas, and I have a theory it will improve my sappy temperament. The ample hip room alone is graciously accommodating to the additional fifteen pounds of saddlebags I gained since starting work. But after recognizing my body is morphing into the shape of a Bartlett pear, I bury my face in a pillow and realize I am not only depressed but quickly becoming fat and depressed.

This is a combination so attractive I celebrate by ordering useless items off QVC. Tonight I decide on a fake fur coat.

I love calling and chatting it up with the operators, talking as if we are close girlfriends hanging out on my dorm room bed reading the astrology section of Cosmo magazine. After giving my name (no need to give payment methodthey already have my credit card on file), I prolong the exchange by asking insanely stupid questions like, Is the faux white coat fire retardant? I reach down into my Doritos bag as she explains my coat will not ignite spontaneously and suggests I order online next time. I don't tell her that my orange Dorito fingers will stain my keyboard, and after a dose of late night television shopping, I can't leave any trace of evidence behind. So I pretend I don't own a computer. I am now lying to my imaginary QVC girlfriend.

This personality shift is due to the fact that I made a horrible mistake with the direction of my life. It's apparent I will never cruise the Mediterranean on a private yacht. Not that it was the barometer for a happy life, but in my twenties that dream actually seemed plausible: that somehow, George Clooney would find my personality irresistible and ask me to meet him in Portofino for finger sandwiches. Sadly, its not going to happen. Instead, Im looking at thirty years to life at being a participating provider at most health insurance companies. What a buzzkill.

Now I am deciding to break up with my job. I wrestle with this speech in my mind as if I am preparing to dump a future ex-boyfriend. It's not you; it's me. Although we gave it our best shot, I just don't think we are right for each other. Plus, I am not attracted to you anymore. You've gotten sloppy and let yourself go. But before I leave, can I have my Neil Diamond CD back?

I plan to share all of this with my husband, but he is projectile vomiting in the bathroom at the moment. He hates his job, too.