for all of the prayers and good wishes that you've been sending my way. The peace that I've had for the last three days could only be coming from that. And it's literally keeping me going.
So it's a Saturday night . . .wait, early Sunday morning . . . and I logged in 73 hours at work this week, counting today. I almost wish that Sunday counted as part of this week so that I could brag about a 80 hour week. Yep. I'm going in tomorrow. Hopefully not for too long.
Whatever. I'll be there for 10 hours.
I think it's criminal to work on a Sunday. But then again, so is working 80 hours in a week. Guess I might as well break all the rules in style.
Some fun goodness came at the end of the workweek that's left me looking forward to the next . . . :) And yes, it shall stay as cryptic as that.
So please say a prayer that everything pulls together and I can make it out of work by 2:30 tomorrow so I can go to my nephew's play. I can't stand the thought of missing it. I moved back to this area so that I wouldn't miss moments like this.
And with this factual post coming to a conclusion, I say: good night.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
some of you remember me
when I had my first job.
I was green out of college with an English degree that left me dazed and helpless, staring at a long list of Washington Post career listings that didn't quite seem to apply. I ended up as the executive assistant (translation: b-word number two) of a Washington big-whig, and I was a wreck.
12-hours days of constant multi-tasking and oh-crappity-crap situations arising with every ping in the inbox. It's just not me.
It became me, but it wasn't me. I didn't like the transformation.
I cried when I read the Devil Wears Prada because I related too much. And I cried in front of a sandwich one day because I was too stressed to even do something that would make me feel better. Like eat.
It didn't matter that I flew in a private jet once. I didn't care that Sandra Day O'Connor signed my book. Or that I drank from a $300 bottle of wine. I was too stressed out to care.
Look back through my journal of that year (which you never will, but it serves), and there is entry after entry of variations of this statement. Every part of me is being pounded and molded into something that I don't fit into. And the best parts of me are being stripped away.
When I look back on that year now, I like to think of it as character-building. It pounding off a healthy layer of illusionment. Toughened me up a bit . . . maybe too much. And it taught me one very important thing.
The world doesn't actually end, even when it feels like it's going to.
Fast forward 3 1/2 years.
My Gchat buddies could tell you one thing about me these days, even though I rarely say hi to them. I'm stressed out of my my mind. I cannot actually scream out loud at work. Clearly. So I virtually scream in the little line of text box that Gmail provides me. You know - it's all about the little things.
My poor friends.
I stayed at work until 9:30 on Monday. 10:00 Tuesday. I finally gave up today and left at 7:30 with a pile of work to pick at when I got home . . . only to have a mental mutiny and resolve with defiance that I just wasn't going to do it. The brain needs a break, right? OF COURSE.
On the way to bed at 10:30, I reflected with fear on all of the things that had to get done tomorrow and I flew downstairs and started racing through the pile. It's almost 2:00 AM and I knocked one huge thing off my list. So why am I still awake?
To do something human.
Because writing on a blog is something that normal people with normal, unstressed lives (that allow you to go to the post office so you can buy stamps and actually pay your bills (sorry roommates)) do.
Because letting yourself think with your own thoughts, and not what has been drilled and twisted and configured into work-thoughts, is a pure and precious thing worth capturing.
Because I have cheese and crackers next to me?
I throw this question out into the void - how do you find the balance? How do you mine out that sacred chamber that you can dip into and find peace in the midst of complete and utter crap and chaos?
I'm going to be searching for it these next two days . . . say a prayer that I don't lose it before then.
I was green out of college with an English degree that left me dazed and helpless, staring at a long list of Washington Post career listings that didn't quite seem to apply. I ended up as the executive assistant (translation: b-word number two) of a Washington big-whig, and I was a wreck.
12-hours days of constant multi-tasking and oh-crappity-crap situations arising with every ping in the inbox. It's just not me.
It became me, but it wasn't me. I didn't like the transformation.
I cried when I read the Devil Wears Prada because I related too much. And I cried in front of a sandwich one day because I was too stressed to even do something that would make me feel better. Like eat.
It didn't matter that I flew in a private jet once. I didn't care that Sandra Day O'Connor signed my book. Or that I drank from a $300 bottle of wine. I was too stressed out to care.
Look back through my journal of that year (which you never will, but it serves), and there is entry after entry of variations of this statement. Every part of me is being pounded and molded into something that I don't fit into. And the best parts of me are being stripped away.
When I look back on that year now, I like to think of it as character-building. It pounding off a healthy layer of illusionment. Toughened me up a bit . . . maybe too much. And it taught me one very important thing.
The world doesn't actually end, even when it feels like it's going to.
Fast forward 3 1/2 years.
My Gchat buddies could tell you one thing about me these days, even though I rarely say hi to them. I'm stressed out of my my mind. I cannot actually scream out loud at work. Clearly. So I virtually scream in the little line of text box that Gmail provides me. You know - it's all about the little things.
My poor friends.
I stayed at work until 9:30 on Monday. 10:00 Tuesday. I finally gave up today and left at 7:30 with a pile of work to pick at when I got home . . . only to have a mental mutiny and resolve with defiance that I just wasn't going to do it. The brain needs a break, right? OF COURSE.
On the way to bed at 10:30, I reflected with fear on all of the things that had to get done tomorrow and I flew downstairs and started racing through the pile. It's almost 2:00 AM and I knocked one huge thing off my list. So why am I still awake?
To do something human.
Because writing on a blog is something that normal people with normal, unstressed lives (that allow you to go to the post office so you can buy stamps and actually pay your bills (sorry roommates)) do.
Because letting yourself think with your own thoughts, and not what has been drilled and twisted and configured into work-thoughts, is a pure and precious thing worth capturing.
Because I have cheese and crackers next to me?
I throw this question out into the void - how do you find the balance? How do you mine out that sacred chamber that you can dip into and find peace in the midst of complete and utter crap and chaos?
I'm going to be searching for it these next two days . . . say a prayer that I don't lose it before then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
