Blow A Seam
My parents took me to Annie when I was six-years-old. I sang “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” every morning for months. Sometimes I think I’m singing it still.
I walked to work today loving life. I had finally tackled the pile of dishes in the sink, I had three cups of coffee, and even written a little bit. And I was loving music again. I was wearing headphones, cranking Pete Yorn, even singing along. It was sunny. I was smiling. Everything was fine.
Twenty minutes later I was having a very public, very abrasive debate with a co-worker. And I lost my noggin’ a little. And he stormed out of the meeting. And everyone sat there stunned for a minute, then resumed. I was flabbergasted at how quickly it had escalated, and how irate I’d gotten over something fairly pointless.
Of course it wasn’t pointless. We were arguing, basically, over the validity of raging against the machine from within the machine. My argument is, we signed on the dotted line, check that shit at the door (but don’t surrender the ethos). His was to the contrary. We’re both entitled.
So we cooled down and talked it over. I made my rounds to management and made amends for making a bit of a scene, and tried to resume my day. But I was derailed. All day. Still am.
What would Mister Rogers have done? I’m not being snarky. I’m serious. What would he have done? ‘Cuz I lost it a little more than usual, and am not psyched about it.
Every day with increasing vigilance I endeavor to be my best for people, and towards people — to do the right thing. But just like that, turn your head, and something snaps. As Gus Grissom says in The Right Stuff, “You can blow out any seam at any time.”
So am I stressed? Apparently. I haven’t had more than three days off all year, which is obviously pretty stupid. Marathon, new record, work — you know the list, I’ll spare you. But jeez, I gotta’ keep my shit in check, at least long enough to get my ass across the finish line Sunday.
As I walked home from a Matrix Revolutions screening in the East 30s just now, I strapped on my headphones, and tried to enjoy the city… but it just wasn’t happening. I’m dark inside. Who knew how prescient I was being when I wrote “I’m like a solar flare these days, exploding with rogue energy” this morning? Solar storms? Maybe. Marathon? Definitely. Work? Check.
Either way, the sun will come out tomorrow — storms, spots, or not — and I’ll get up, and take another stab at it.