THE NOT SO PROUD
AND THE PROFANE
6 May 2003
I hadn't screamed the "F" word in two days. I hadn't
realized how stressed I've been the past week until the pilot announced that we had
started our descent into Sacramento and I put a placemark into my John Grishom book
("The Testament"--very good), looked at my watch, and started mentally going
over what had to be done before I got to work. "S***" I muttered softly under my
breath, as the familiar knot began to form in my stomach as I started to worry about
getting it all done.
I collected my suitcase from baggage claim and got in to the parking
lot bus to ride out to where I'd parked my car. 42C in the economy lot. When I stowed
things in the trunk and headed toward the exit there was a row of cars, slowly making it
through the cashier's booth. "S***" I said a little louder, my foot beginning to
tap on the floor of the car impatiently.
As I turned off onto the backroad headed toward home, I noticed that
I was driving 85 mph as I approached the 45 mph zone. Oops. Better slow down.
I rushed in the front door, picking up the waiting envelope from the
psychiatrist on the way and went to listen to messages on the answering machine. There was
one there from the psychiatrist. "Oh hi, Bev," he said in that cheery voice.
"I was wondering if you'd had a chance to finish off that report yet." It was
the report in my hand at the moment.
"Damn." That meant that my plans to rush through Dr. G's
work before heading down to the office would have to be put on hold, since the
psychiatrist expected to fax off his work today.
I got the job finished and put it out in the box for him to collect,
calling to leave a voice message that it was done. On my way in, I passed the remnants of
the checkbook I never got to the bank on Friday. "F***," I said, feeling like
pulling my hair out.
I sat down at the computer again and the phone rang. It was Dr. G.
"Oh hi, Bev," he said. "I was wondering when you were going to be in. There
are a lot of messages on the answering machine." I told him I'd like to work on his
transcription for the next 45 minutes, and that I'd just walked in the door (slight
exaggeration, but not much). "OK," he said, cheerily, not seeming to notice that
I was rushing home to work after my all-too-brief weekend. We chatted pleasantly, while he
told me about the stack of work he had accumulated for me over the weekend, work that I
would be taking home to do. I could feel my stomach knotting again.
I slammed down the phone and screamed "F***!"
I started typing Dr. G's work as fast as I could, stopping to wring
my hands and, when the computer had to be restarted, run to the refrigerator. He spelled a
simple word for me ("pipelle") and I yelled "THANK YOU, DR. G" (I HATE
it when he assumes I'm an idiot who can't spell words I've been spelling for decades).
It was so peaceful when I woke up this morning (even though I'd set
the alarm clock wrong and got up an hour early--4 a.m. instead of 5!). The time away
hadn't been long enough and the plunge back into the tension I left on Saturday morning
much too quick.
Work wasn't overly stressful, thank goodness, except for when the
bank called and I had to make a flying trip down there, leaving Dr. G standing by my desk
with a stack of work that absolutely positively couldn't sit on his own desk a minute
I left at 6:30 and rushed home. I'd manage to sandwich in a brief
interview for the newspaper feature article, which I now have to write before finishing
Dr. G's work. The psychiatrist will just have to wait another day. He's had his share of
"rush jobs" for the day.
Yes, I definitely think it's time for me to learn how to say
"no" and to start taking some time to smell the roses...or the lilacs. I was
wishing I was back struggling through the sand on that rainy bikepath in Boise again. At
least that was something I felt I could control. This seems to me out of control and I'm
spinning out of control along with it.