Freakin’ crazy out of my mind.
I have a colleague who likes to discuss how people say things like, “I’m so pissed that it’s going to cost me $1K to get my BMW tuned up,” because what it really means is: I have a BMW, I will pay $1K to have it tuned up, you don’t, and I really just wanted you to know that I have a BMW and I will pay $1K to get it tuned up because YOU don’t have a BMW let alone $1K to spare.
The colleague is referring to people who have problems but really don’t, aka assholes. People who seize opportunities to say poor me when they really don’t believe it. People who want you to know that their idea of a situation is something you’d be lucky to experience, even just a fraction.
I am so not that person. My injury is healing and my foot is elevated as my fingers dance across the keyboard updating this blog entry from the chair of immobility. I have a lovely view of the backyard, which is full of leaves that need raking and features my sleeping furson in the shade of one of the tables. We have a high coral wall that assures privacy. It is like a Secret Garden. We are fortunate to have it and I know it.
But the only way I can get out there is on crutches. I have a dull headache. I’m hungry, so in a little while I’m going to crutch over to the kitchen and get myself something I’m craving: chips and salsa. I am not craving guacamole.
I’m worried. I don’t think PT will start for another six weeks. I get my cast changed in 4 weeks, and my foot, fixed at the moment in a pirouette, will be adjusted so that it’s still a pirouette, but less so.
Why else am I worried? I am not working. I am not out of a job, but, I’m not there, I’m not doing what I do, I’m not talking to people, seeing people, meeting deadlines, getting new assignments, contributing in meetings. I’ve fallen off the face of the earth and I’m not happy about it. I also have bills to pay.
I used to telecommute, but then it was made clear that I was not really authorized, so that was reigned in. That’s OK. I understand. But when I did telecommute, I delivered. I didn’t miss any deadlines, I got the work done. I need to write up a case to be permitted to telecommute again. I think I can. I can write myself into and out of just about anything I want or don’t want. I’m not being cocky. I can write YOU into just about anything you want or don’t want.
I should be permitted some whining for this injury. I told my husband today that I was at about 85 percent fit, that I was really getting to a point where I could be amazing at my age. But now, I’m like at 15 percent of what I was. I’m unhappy about that. I have to be patient about my recovery.
So I’ve lost ground on the fitness front, I’m worried about losing ground at work, and I’m worried about missing out on an opportunity that will come up, that might be perfect for me, but I’m here feeling screwed.
Is there an antidote for that?