I’ve always thought it was simpler to ease back into work after a long weekend than a week-long vacation. You’ve had just enough time away to ease out of the to-do list and must-haves and the pick-up-the-damn-phone-already call that’s been hanging on the other line, but not too much time away where you get that crazy idea: I don’t have to go back!
I approached work Tuesday morning with calmness and a bit of eagerness to begin the day. My desk had been well maintained the few days I was off. A few things carried over, but nothing that would be put me over the edge. I was in the Zen Zone. Relaxed and ready to implement my new “I can take on the world; nothing is bigger than me” approach.
Within a few hours it was like I had been kicked in the head. Tasks, phone calls and now-that-your-back-I-need-a-favor requests trickled in until the avalanche overcame me. I was the stunned antelope watching as the pack of lions nipped, bit and eventually tore into my flesh. I was angry. I was frustrated. I was amazed at how quickly the glow had washed away.
It hadn’t even lasted a full day back at work.
It wasn’t until I came home tonight that I realized why I had stopped writing in the first place: I was sick of hearing myself complain. I would come home after a frustrating day and vent onto paper. I can flip through journals now and I can always tell when I was “writing angry”. Large, loopy, wild cursive. All over the place. If handwriting could rage, that’s what it would do. It rages incoherently; striking through any logical thought. I couldn’t resolve all that anger. It just kept swirling around. So I muzzled it. For six years.
So tonight, mindful that I had made a commitment to myself, I escaped a bit. I scrolled down the blog list. Picked those things that interested me. That had the potential to lift me out of my morose mood. And suddenly here I am, admitting that I had a crappy couple of days. I survived them. They aren’t any tragedy. So far from it.
Tomorrow’s another day. Let’s see what happens.