Last week I was ready to quit my job, pack up my husband and pets and whatever stuff I could fit in the trunk of my car, and run away as far as a few tanks of gas could take us. I still feel like that, even though I know damn well I won't do it. I have roots in this town, and I've lived in my house for 11 years. But I do a lot of job-hopping and am already wanting to quit the one I started in January, so I can empathize with you.