The snafu I walked into this morning was my fault. Totally. It might have been less of one had boss #1 remembered a few discussions, or boss #2 hadn’t known why I ditched out yesterday. No one likes a reminder that work is not your number one priority. (Although he has often chided me for making it such a high priority when I’ve pulled a 24-hour shift. You can please some of the people all of the…)
I hate that I enjoy my job so much that I want to cry over this. I let people down. I was let down.
The thing that I don’t get is that both #1 and #2 always comment on how I got dumped with too much work, too many important tasks, and that I’ve done a kick ass job considering. I’ve been in meetings where I represent half of the dozen interfaces discussed. (Other people = one or two)
Are the mistakes I make an outcome of just being overworked? Am I multitasking to a point that to err is human? Or is there something flawed in my approach that allows for these slip-ups?
I guess I’m down because I want to do a kick ass job. No qualifier or explanation needed.
It rained all last night. I love this weather. I used to go to pass-a-grille and walk the entire length – from the “To Public Beach” sign, to the concrete pier that the fisherman use – during downpours.
I’ve huddled against someone on that pier during a hurricane who turned out not to do it for me. I walked hand-in-hand over that sand with someone who didn’t want the date to end after dinner-and-a-movie (and we still ended up back at my place, watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”), but turned out not to want to do it for me.
I drove to that beach with W only to not get out the car, taking advantage of the mood thunderstorms put me in.
But mostly, I remember Monica. Junior year. No boys (er, for the most part). Our own apartment. Mornings of cappaccino and grapefruit halves. Nights of sand, seashells, and rain.
2009 Progress Update
I skipped around my folder a bit. I didn’t neccesarily want to choose items to share in chronological order. It would seem like I’m telling a story. And I’m not, at least not to my knowledge.
The first part, the job part, hits home because I feel a sprained my ankle in part due to over-working. (I deleted “being over worked” because that implies someone other than myself put the heavy on me.) So, obviously I’m very much the same.
The last part, the beach and men and Monica part…I haven’t had many close female friends in my life. Or close friends period. The sprained ankle brings it out in me as well – I can’t stand the incessant questions regarding my health from collegues and volunteers.
I always thought I was good about being friends and keeping in touch with people. But they have babies and I have jobs and here we are. Or, here I am. We implies the babies and the jobs didn’t change anything. And they did. They always do.