My "get the shit done" streak has ended. I was on fire, I tell you, for several weeks. And then? Allergies and old age hit me like a stick.
I spent this past weekend in bed, literally. And, yes, I felt very badly for myself all the while. I was clogged up with pollen-induced phlegm, and self pity. Oh, and my knee hurt. More self pity.Yesterday I went to work all in a funk, limping and sniffling and sort of hoping that another 22 year old creative would give me a hug. That actually happened last week, you know. These kids today - I'm not even sure what letter generation we are calling them at this point - they are an affectionate bunch. And they appreciate my sapience. Or they pity me as the crazy old lady in the corner office.
One of those things.
I totally remember when I worked at an agency many moons ago and there was an actual grown-up lady on the staff. She was 40. We mad respected her. And then, at a different agency there was a lady who was like 50. When she left we were all like, "yeah, probably time to pack it in."
Perspective sure does change.
But, that's not where I was going with this. I was going toward the crying. People cry on me. It must be a pheromone I exude or something, but if someone is going to cry at work they beeline for me. And I am so not suited. I do not cry at work. Never have, never will. And I barely know how to respond. Last week it was a gal whose dog was having seizures, today a little bitty girl whose friend had died in some bizarre scuba accident. Actual tears hit the conference table.
Very sad. And very real. And I then sit here and realize I have nothing to blog about besides being congested and having a pronounced limp.
I should just shut up.