There is likely to be a fair amount of negativity in this post. It is, after all, a rant of sorts. So, if that's not your thing, I get it. It's normally not mine, but as I've mentioned previously, sometimes I write in this blog to get that shit out of my head so I can move on to other things. Like which Netflix series to binge on next.
I also normally don't bitch about work on this blog. At least not since I actually got a job that I love, feel respected in, and feel like I'm making a difference at. So...that isn't really going to change, but some of what precipitated this little blowing off of the steam, as it were, is work-related. So, there's that. Don't worry. If you're a co-worker that happens to be reading this-first off-how did you even find this blog? Oh sorry. Right. If you're a co-worker that happens to be reading this, don't worry. It wasn't anything you did or said. If you are my boss or a person in management, again-don't worry. This probably doesn't have anything to do with you either.
I got to thinking about them yesterday as I was leaving work (because I was really close to melting down and having one). Children have temper tantrums for one of two reasons. The first is because they are still learning the way the world works and trying to figure out their place in it and how they are supposed to interact with the world around them. The other reason children throw tantrums is because the old soul that is within them hasn't quite forgotten about the universe at large from whence they came and they can't believe that after all that time in the ethereal void they've been reincarnated back on to planet full of people who still don't have a fucking clue about the way the universe works.
I rather think that it's option #2 most of the time, but I think that most of the world generally accepts that it is the former.
Which is cool. If you're a child. If you are, however, a grown ass man...neither option is really acceptable. No melt-downs at the grocery...or Starbucks...or the amusement park. It seems, if you throw a temper tantrum as an adult, then you are scheduled appointments to have little chats with someone who is trying to diagnose you base on the psych version of the Monsters Manual. The D-something-M-something. And once they have rolled for initiative, they prescribe little pills with exotic but totally made up names.
So...I held it together yesterday as I was leaving work. The specifics don't matter...but the takeaway was that I'm not really doing enough to ensure that my team is successful and that I need to step it up. This came on the heels of me saying I was leaving for the day for my daughter's graduation (which I was already pretty emotional about (inwardly) anyway). So...by the time I got to my car, I was a bubbling mess of "what the fuck just happened?". Not a good mindset when I have to drive home in shitty rainy weather AND then be in a good place to congratulate my daughter as she passed a MAJOR milestone in her adult life.
Had I written this post last night, hot on the heels of the vaguebook post, it would have been slightly different. In that it would have been based off of pure emotions and quite likely more venomous. I keep flashing to Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day" when he's driving with Puxatawny Phil--"Don't drive angry...don't drive angry." I didn't. I didn't write angry. Because you can never truly take words back once they come out. I've learned that.
I did the next best thing. I got White Castles and played Bejeweled in "Butterfly" mode for a good hour or so and then I went to bed after that. I let the thoughts about work settle and fall to the bottom of their appropriate buckets and decided that, "Fuck it. I will do the best job I can and the chips will have to fall wherever they fall. I can't be everything to everyone." There was more to that but that's in the paper version of this blog which I affectionately call my journal.
So...ball of raw emotions leaving work. Then the commute home. I shouldn't have to go in to details about that, other than to say whenever there is visible moisture in the air, people lose their shit. It's kind of annoying, but after 27 years of driving I've come to expect it.
And then another bundle of raw emotions hit me about 8:30. My baby girl graduated from The Paul Mitchell School. She's had quite the 18month journey to do so, but it came to a close yesterday.
When a student (or Future Professional) graduates, they make a tunnel and send them off. It looks kind of like this:
The last bit where it goes wonky at the end is because I got the first hug. I am not going to lie. I was choked up. I held back the tears--at least until I got home.
There is something about seeing your child grow up and start doing adult things. Like....actually adulting. It's surreal.
Things fall in to perspective, at least they are for me. The world is wide open for her.
But fuck, man. What's going on in my life? See...this is where the rubber really hits the road. I look at the world ahead of her and I think of my life up to this moment. What would I do differently? What would I change?
And sometimes that's a really selfish train of thought, to be perfectly honest. Because it's basically saying, "Fuck anyone I have ever interacted with, influenced even in the slightest, or touched in anyway." Because let's be honest...if you could change anything in your life that would mean that everything after that point would change. Would it change for the better? Maybe. That's the siren song of the what-if game. We all play the what-if game as though the outcome will be to have a better life than what we have now. But what if it isn't? What if one little choice sets everything off the rails and it gets totally boned?
I can't imagine any change in my life that having made it would still allow me to wind up here. In this moment. In this sometimes being so frustrated I could scream while still being thankful for my amazing life moment.
I guess this really wasn't a temper tantrum. The shouting at the drivers all the way home (especially the asshat in the black Honda Civic)--now THAT was more along the lines of a temper tantrum. Or road rage. One of the two.
And apropos of nothing at all...as I'm writing this...I get interrupted (because I still take my lunches in the break room, like a dumbass). And the message is...we're behind on getting issues resolved. And that I need to put a plan together. Which could involve some additional work on the weekends. Well...it was presented as the need for overtime. The weekend bit was a suggestion.
Which...fuck. My weekends in October are ridiculously tight. Several of the weekends are booked. But now it looks like some of that may change. Which...fuck. Seriously balls. I am sitting here thinking that there's no way I really want to miss the Imaginarium convention next weekend, but it looks like that very thing might happen. I've been told that we haven't actually caught up and been ahead of the curve since I came back from my surgery. That was Summer of 2015.
I have many more thoughts on this, but the not so subtle message here is that break time is over and I need to get my ass back to work.