Why I Gave Up the Violin

I used to get stuck in doors when I played Call of Duty.  Those controllers were the death of me hundreds and hundreds of times, and when it wasn’t that I was getting lost on the maps, even the small ones.  I don’t get stuck in doors anymore, but I’ve yet to master the game.  I never will.

I simply don’t have the time.

It’s unfortunate for impatient souls like me, but mastery of anything–including fake combat with a plastic controller–takes… time.  Lots of it.  That’s why I quit playing the violin.

I began playing the violin when I was eleven after I won a violin in an auction.  I’d always wanted to play, and my chance finally came.  I loved it.  But it’s so dang hard to play, and after years of lessons I was no master.  I was tired of being embarrassed by my lack of skill.  I was an adult now.  I had a full time job, little time to practise, and no money for lessons (and no one in my apartment block wanted to listen to me screech).  Writing had become my passion.  So I played one last recital, and I haven’t even opened the case since.

That’s also why I don’t play hockey, or paint, or draw anymore.  I hate being bad, and I’ve no time to be good.

But I can’t always quit things I’m bad at, can I?  Case in point: singing in the church choir.

Swearing at the Choir

It doesn’t sound difficult.  You show up and sing.  But as singers, we are considered leaders and we are held to a high standard in how we live and relate to Jesus.  This accountability is excellent.  But I’ve come face to face with reality in the past few days.  I’m a the good Christian nice girl. I’m kind of a bitch. I rant. I swear.  I go into seething fits about inconsequential details, and offences, and misunderstandings.  I critique others mercilessly while indulging myself. I’m addicted to silly things like YouTube and chips.

I’ve been flabbergasted by my inability to connect to, and like the music I sing.  Two ladies were cooing about how much they liked the new Christmas songs, and inside I’m like ‘really? I think they’re lame.’  This should all be so secondary, because the music is hardly the point.  The point is to worship Jesus through song, and by giving of my time and energy and voice so that others can meet with God.

My leaders have told me is that the frustration I bear owes to the fact that I have a lot of personal and spiritual growing to do.  I know they’re right, and I’m depressed about it.  I want to be fixed.  Now.

And that’s impossible.

A Summer of Masochism

While in prayer yesterday, God reminded me of how I learned to run.  I began Couch to 5K on June 17th, ran my first 5K race on August 19th, and ran 10K on November 1st.  This would have been impossible without 1) a program 2) time 3) lacing up and never missing a workout.  Most of it was great, but there were horrible things mingled in–days when I almost puked from heat an exertion, speed intervals in downpours, black and blue toenails, 5Ks I ran while sick with burning lungs and muscles (probably shouldn’t have done that).  Basically, I was never without pain for the entire summer.

Does that sound like torture?  Well, it sort of was.  But here I am a runner, and I’m so glad.

So I sensed that he was telling me not to be discouraged because I couldn’t be strong that very instant. I need time, training, and discipline.  It’s amazing what a year can do.  But what about two?

I have big plans for next year.  I’ll run my first 10K races, and I plan to run my first half-marathon at the end of the summer.  But there’s a chance that I’m thinking too small entirely, and what I’ll end up accomplishing is a lot bigger than that.  Effort, compounded, can do surprising things over time.

If you’re willing to give it.

Mohammed Ali said, “I hated every minute of training, but I said ‘Don’t quit.  Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.'”

 

 

4 Ways to Know if you are in a Slump

The dictionary says that the word ‘slump’ originates from a word meaning ‘to fall into a bog.’  That’s wonderfully accurate.  The kind of slumps I’m thinking of are quicksand-ish things that suck you down and render you, the high-performance machine, into a tire-spinning mess.

They’re kind of dangerous if not diagnosed.  So here is how to know if you’ve fallen into a bog… and possibly my own tongue-in-cheek confession.

If You Refuse to Eat Your Veggies…

If you usually get your five to seven servings, but now you call those green flakes in your bag of sour cream ‘n onion good enough.  If you call the ketchup on your fries and the lettuce on your burger a salad.

You may be in a slump.

If You’re Watching Way Too Much TV…

If when you’re gunning for a goal you don’t give a rip about when Castle and Becket are getting married, but now it seems like a good reason to stay on the couch.  If you’re surfing YouTube at random–for hours.  If the kids who run the video store don’t need to ask for your phone number to process the rental, ’cause they know it already.

You may be in in a slump.

If You Hate Everyone…

If you’re usually Mr. Nice Guy, but now the world is full of idiots.  If even your Mom can’t get a smile out of you.  If you can’t stand to have someone breathing beside you because the noise drives you wild.

You may be in a slump.

If You Can’t Stand to be in the Same Room as Yourself…

If your internal dialogue consists of constant rants, diatribes, and arguments with yourself.  If you can’t muster the will to say no to yourself anymore.  If it’s Saturday and you’ve ticked nothing off your to-do list and you feel like a fat, lazy slob.

You’re not as bad as you think you are.

Look yourself in the eye and tell yourself “I am worthwhile,” because you are.  Your worth isn’t based on what you do.  You are a human, a unique soul, a special gift.  You are the image-bearer of God.  You might be going through a slump right now.  You may be full out depressed, and I’m sorry.  I wish I could make it better.

But you aren’t a waste of space.

I’ve watched so much TV, YouTube, and movies this week.  I ate two whole bags of chips this week (and I profess to eat low-sugar, low-carb).  I slacked off of blogging and tweeting.  I avoided my novel manuscript.  I was a grumpy bear to my coworkers and my family and ranted a great deal more than is seemly.  I’m sure I’ve been annoying as heck.  About the only things I did right were going running and showing up in church on Sunday morning.

But the clock is at three minutes past midnight.  It’s Tuesday morning, and I have twenty-four hours to try again.

What Can My Small Voice Do?

Monday, Robin Williams dies in his San Francisco home, succumbing to severe depression. Tuesday, across the continent, I am in a factory making antidepressants. This isn’t lost on me. I mourn helplessly as I watch the hundreds of thousands of tablets rush by.

Iraq: Christians, Yazidis and other innocents are systematically killed under the onslaught of the ISIS. Outrage explodes all over social media, and every Christian blog sounds the trumpet. “Wake up!” they say. “Grow a pair!”

So I write to my Member of Parliament, and I look for an organization to donate to, and I pray, all the while knowing that the letter won’t reach the government for days, and the money can’t throw up a brick wall between the bullets and the little kids.

What can my small voice do?

In times like this it’s stylish to bash North American apathy. Oh yeah, I have it easy. I’m safe at home in front of my MacBook after my shift in the pharmaceutical factory. But what the hell do you want me to do? Get a gun and hop on the first plane?

Does anyone ever tell you that you must live your own life?

You cannot for one instant become an Iraqi Christian, take a bullet and be cleansed of the guilt of being a rich, white American. You are yourself, and here you are, in front of your MacBook.

But consider that Robin Williams was also a rich, white American, and he died in his own home, in the agony of depression. He’s a public case of a common story. We are surrounded by people who feel alone and hopeless, who stagger under the crushing weight of mental illness, physical abuse, relational brokenness, financial burdens, failure at their job, and unbearable schedules. Twitter isn’t hopping with their stories, but the pain is real.

We are surrounded by a sea of troubles.  We don’t need to look so far into the distance when they are right under our noses.

I fear that North Americans come off as apathetic because they’ve been convinced that they are too little to fix things.  Think of what we say: “The government ought to… My boss ought to… My parents need to…”  Our movies are all about BIG problems fixed by action heroes, spies, and superstars.  Heck, even the Evangelical Christian world is dominated by megachurch pastors and their best selling books.

That’s bull.

I can’t help but think of the proverb “If everyone would sweep their front step, the whole world would be clean.”  It is by ten-thousand small acts that the world changes.

I hope I’m not coming off too preachy. In fact, this post is the result of hours of contemplation and quite a few helpless tears. What can my small voice do? I’ve come to the shaky realization that I must do what only I can do. I must complete my assignment on this earth.

There are four ways I believe this can be accomplished.

1. Accept our Assignments.

No one has the exact combination of friends, family, location and predispositions that we do. We must be at peace with our starting point because it makes us uniquely qualified to work in our circle of influence. The moment we say “I wish I was…” or feel guilty for who we are, we inadvertently say “I am too good for this.” Instead, start looking for what you are good at, and what provokes you, and consider this the trailhead to your mission.

2. Become experts.

We begin by acceptance, but we can’t be satisfied with who we are. The resources and knowledge we begin with won’t be sufficient to live a meaningful, excellent life. We’ve got to become educated, to move past shallow opinions to a true understanding of what we believe. Moreover, we’ve got to develop the skills needed to propel us forward, be it interpersonal skills, business know-how, communication and writing–in my case, all of the above. University is good, but not necessary. Quality books and audios are much cheaper, and readily available.

3. Build a Community

It has been said that you are the results of the books you read and the people you associate with. It’s important to assemble a team of people around you so you can encourage each other, learn from one another, and shore up each other’s weaknesses. I have a community of writers around me who’ve encouraged me and have taught me everything from the mechanics of writing to business and marketing. I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without them, and six months or a year from now, I will be much better because of them. They speak truth to me.

4. Make an Impassioned Plea

Let your voice be heard. Talk about what is important to you. Write letters to your government representatives write to editors, blog, post on Facebook and Twitter, and talk to your friends. Do this with gentleness and respect, and the deepest understanding you can muster.

I denounce the use of guilt tactics to try to wake us up.  Guilt is a lousy fertilizer for growing spines. But I don’t condemn that every blog is talking about Robin Williams and the slaughter in Iraq.  I wouldn’t have heard about it otherwise.

Let your voice be heard, but don’t be satisfied with just speaking.  Reach out–with your gifts, your connections, and your knowledge.

“It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do a little.  Do what you can,”–Sir Sidney Smith.

Resources:

How to Communicate Effectively with Your Member of Parliament

LIFE Leadership (A well-rounded source of training on interpersonal, leadership and success principles)

The Center for Social Leadership

3 Pet Peeves About Romance Novels

Or Romantic Comedies, for that matter…

This Sunday, I watched a romantic comedy because the TV was on and I was too lazy to get off the couch and turn it off. Hugh Grant starred as a bumbling art auctioneer who fell in love with the daughter of a mob kingpin. Before I knew it, people were staging a wedding and faking their deaths, and I was thanking God that life isn’t like romantic comedies.

When I was a teenager I’d haul romances out of the library by the stack. Now I’d rather read the Encyclopedia Britannica or Crime and Punishment (which is both a crime and a punishment). The movie got me thinking: what about romance novels ticks me off the most?

1. Perfection Beyond that of Mortals

Not ALL of us can fall in love with a ripped highlander who has flowing blond hair, or a gorgeous billionaire businessman, or a cowboy with abs that roll like the prairies. Where is the hero who lives in his mom’s basement and plays four hours of video games every day (in the real world you can hardly move without meeting one of those)? How about the guy who’s working his butt off to pay off his student loan? And the only man with an average face and a slight potbelly is the hero’s best friend.

Not ALL of us ladies have a cataract of black curls, lips like spun scarlet silk (Listen to me. I’ll make a romance novelist yet) and work as marketing executives, fashion designers and fitness trainers. When will they write romances with women who drive beater cars, waitress on weekends to pay the bills, and wear Wal-Mart jeans? What about a girl who carries extra pounds with grace and doesn’t let her weight stop her from looking gorgeous?

Sidebar: I’ve yet to see a romance novel with a hipster man on the cover. Have you?  

2. The Ultimate Betrayal

You know it’s coming. The highlander is from the wrong clan, a sworn enemy. The billionaire is caught with another woman. The cowboy succumbs to the scars of his past and pushes his cowgirl away.

Will the heroine give her man the benefit of the doubt?

HECK NO!

Will they talk it out like mature human beings? Will they communicate so that the billionaire can explain that he was just taking his sister out to lunch, and they hadn’t seen each other in weeks so he was giving her a hug?

That would be too easy.

For all their professions of true love, trust isn’t a priority in romance novels or movies. “Love” will conquer the two hundred lies they’ve told each other. Love will magically make their clan rivalries disappear. True love conquers all.

Well, yes. But true love means hard work, baby. To love someone means to accept their big bad flaws and serve them and edify them even when you’re pretty sure you hate them. Storming off stage and plotting crazy revenge doesn’t come in to play.

3. The Sex

I’ve got to say it. I hate, HATE the sex scenes. Call me a prude if you will. I read mostly Christian fiction as a youngster, but I stumbled upon my first mainstream romance novel when I was young—eleven or twelve, I think. It didn’t take long for me to find the obligatory steamy scene. I can still remember it in vivid detail.

If I’d been an adult, would it have been better?

I don’t want my real, human, lover to have to compete with a hundred fictional highlanders, billionaires and cowboys. I’m no expert, but wise people have told me that, like anything else, intimacy takes work. It’s not mind-blowing the first time. But that’s not what the romance novel will teach you.

Those scenes feed our selfish desires and fantasies.  They’re porn in written form.

“Oh, but it advances the plot.”  Okay, I’ll give you that.  Generally I’ll accept small amounts of sexual content because they are necessary to the plot.

But play by play in meticulous detail?  Absolutely unnecessary!  Entire books devoted to ‘erotica’?  I don’t see how any good can come from that.

Brainwashing. Ack!

The rational mind knows the difference between fiction and fact, but the subconscious believes what it sees or projects upon the screen of the imagination. Though I thought they were just ‘harmless entertainment,’ the stacks of romances changed how I thought of love, myself, and men–and not for the better. In spite of years of reading and studying healthy relationships, I still haven’t expunged them from my brain.

I Still Love Romance

Ultimately, what makes me angry about these romance novels is the ‘something for nothing’ mentality. They give the idea that love is an accident. You ‘fall’ in love, and bam! Fireworks! Happily ever after!

It would be hypocritical to say that I hate romance.  On the contrary.  I can’t write a story without it.  But I’ve tried to build two things into my stories: sacrifice and uncertainty. What begins in attraction progresses to shared experiences, setting aside pride, conquering fears, and putting the other person above their own comfort. There is no perfect circumstance. Life is not fair, and at the end of the story, the characters are not riding off into the sunset. They’re standing side by side, staring into the face of the next storm.

I’ve got no judgement for you if you love romance novels.  I believe humans (ladies, especially) are hardwired to enjoy a good love story.  Just ask yourself.  Is this story really good?

There Are Always More Dishes

Life is like the dishes. There are always more dishes. Not half an hour ago I washed the last container and miscellaneous spoon (there are always an abundance of dirty spoons in my kitchen), and then I emptied my lunch kit and found two more containers. So it goes. I paid my telephone bill just now, but there is a credit card bill waiting in the wings. There is always another bill. There is always another dish. Don’t get me started on laundry.

I’m in a slump. I have a slump every six to eight weeks, so I’m no longer alarmed by them. I know I will rise like the phoenix and become my usual, optimistic self. But that person is unlikely to return today. I’m consumed my merry-go-round life, and trying to reconcile how hard I’m working with my meagre results. When will I catch up to my dreams? It’s like the final lines of The Great Gatsby , in which Nick Carraway likens us to ‘boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past.”

I remind myself that I’m only twenty-three, and can hardly be expected to have it together. I also remind myself that part of the issue is that keep myself in a constant state of tension between my current life and my dreams.

But when I’m in a slump, these don’t seem to matter. My best bet is to keep the motions going, so that when Geralyn the Optimist returns, she doesn’t have too big of a mess to deal with.

My pastor said that hopelessness indicates we’ve reached our personal limit. Hopelessness is us ‘redlining’–a warning that we dare not stay here too long or we may get hurt.

But he also said that hopelessness was his favourite ‘difficult emotion.’

What?

He insisted it was true because, when hopelessness, he turned to Jesus. In fact, hopelessness was what brought him to Christ in the first place.

So in these moments when I can’t seem to keep my head up and life seems like an ever accelerating treadmill, I’ve been thinking about that a lot. It’s true, I guess. During my slumps, I listen to more sermons, more hymns and Christian music. I pray more, even though it’s mostly “Help!”

I wish I could instantly be rid of this blend of weariness, discouragement and uncertainty but if I can’t, I guess I can ‘glory in my weakness’ in which God’s power can be perfected.

Happiness Ain’t on Friday

Can I just be happy where I am?

I doubt there’s one of us who doesn’t clock-watch from time to time. I hear it in the locker room at work: “four more hours” or “two more days until Friday.” And then “It’s Friday!” as if it were the second coming.

So Friday comes, and I wait to get off work. And then I have the long-awaited weekend… and it doesn’t deliver. I think I’ll be happy and relax, but I can’t. I have too much to do, or worse, I’m bored.

Just before Christmas, when months of work without much time off had piled up, I held out Christmas shutdown–twelve glorious days of holidays–out in front of me like the proverbial carrot. I’d rest then, I’d write then, I’d have fun then.

And my holidays were good… but they weren’t great. I wanted to write, but I just spun my tires. I anticipated the Christmas gatherings, only to not enjoy them all that much.

What the heck?

The future just won’t deliver. I say “I’ll be happier when…” or “I’ll be able to afford this when…” and that day eludes me. Will I ever reach a spot where I say “Yes. This is good?”

It reminds me of the Teacher in Ecclesiastes, the ancient wisdom book, who says “Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless.” And that’s pretty dang depressing

The Apostle Paul said he knew how to be content in all circumstances–and he wasn’t speaking of work or home, holiday or workweek, but starving and feasting, freedom or imprisonment, abuse, ridicule, or acclaim. He could be content, though Christ who strengthened him.

So I believe it’s possible to be happy–whether I am scrubbing out a coating pan at work, washing the dishes, preparing for another shift at the clothing store, or doing things I love like writing, reading and drinking coffee (all at once, perhaps).

The only question is, how? I wrote this over the course of a work day, and there were a few guesses I came up with.

1. Give Happy

Chris Brady said “to be happy, you got to give happy.” If I think about what made me happy this week, it wasn’t my evening off, two disks of Criminal Minds, or a sleep-in (which I didn’t get). It was lounging on the grass, talking and praying with my friends, laughing with coworkers and making a coffee frappe for my aunt. So maybe I should take my eyes off myself.

2. Know Where You’re Going

Easier said than done, I know, but some of my best times have been those moments ‘in the zone,’ chasing hard after a goal.

3. A Cheerful Attitude

Sometimes all you can change is your attitude. There doesn’t need to be any of this ‘if only it were Friday,’ whining. It isn’t Friday, okay?

Well, it may be by the time you read this.

But I can’t change what day it is. So I may as well enjoy what I can about it.

Truth is, Paul’s state of contentment feels about as distant as some mystical nirvana. But I’m sure of one thing: constantly chasing after happiness like it’s around the next bend isn’t working for me. Happiness ain’t on Friday.

Motivate Yourself to Work Out in 5 Easy Steps

Me no work out. And when I do, it must be short. Fifteen minutes max. There’s no point in buying me a gym membership because I won’t go. If I can’t work out in my pyjamas in my living room, well, it ain’t gonna happen because I ain’t doing my beached whale moves/crunches where any skinny gym rats can see me.

Science has proven that wearing something made by Lululemon causes you to burn 25% more calories

Nevertheless, I’ve worked out for two months straight now, because I have my motivation strategy all worked out. And now, you can be motivated too! Here are five steps to motivation:

1. Tell Yourself How Good it is For You

You’ll sleep better, you’ll have better
circulation. It’ll clear the mental fog–but most of all, it will keep you limber. And for me, being able to finally sit cross-legged is a big deal.

Not kidding.

That failing, move to:

2. Stand in Front of a Mirror–In Your Underwear

First, flex your muscles and admire the biceps you have developed. Second, squeeze the jelly roll around your middle. Those reverse crunches? Oh yeah, it’ll be gone.

But if that doesn’t work.

3. Kick Your Own Butt

I say to myself “Who’s the boss? Who’s the boss?”

**meekly** “I am.”

“Then get out there!”

I’ve got my game face on.

But if you’re still on the couch, try:

4. Promise Yourself Something

If I work out four times this week I’ll:

Eat chips.

Fail.

Buy the next book in The Mortal Instruments series. Ding Ding Ding!

But, if you cannot possibly bring yourself to do a squat, lunge or a step on the treadmill, there is one last maneuver you can try.

5. Watch Extreme Makeover: Weightloss Edition

If this doesn’t scare you into your workout gear, at very least it will inspire you. They always look so beautiful at the end, and they have so much confidence!

That’s all we want, right?

Friends, I’m a royal wimp when it comes to working out, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that doing what you said you would does wonders for the mind, body and soul.

So put on the sweats. Tie back the hair. Off the couch in three, two, one… go!

My Life as a Zoo Animal

This must be what it feels like to be a bear in a zoo, or an ape or something.

A group of gaping tourists stand outside my doors, goggling through the big windows. A lady in a white lab-coat waves her hands and says: “Observe, a female of the species ‘Coateris Pharmeceuticalis’.”

So I make sure I’m doing something ‘coater-like’–i.e. looking over my paperwork. But as soon as they’ve passed by, I return to my original posture–slumped in my chair, deep in thought, or with my nose pressed up against the window of the coating pan, watching the guns spray, lulled into a stupor by the soothing sounds of, say, two industrial mixers running full tilt!

(Coateris pharmaceuticalis have been observed with peculiar bits of chartreuse foam in their ears. It is suspected this is to dull the noise of the roaring mixers)

I spend many a day in a box-shaped room, alone. My companions are a huge machine called a coating pan, tanks, mixers, and various other implements I need to do my job. But most of the time I don’t use them. The pan runs on it’s own, and I just take readings every quarter-hour.

So I pace: round and round and round. Every now and again, my zoo-keeper/supervisor will stick his head in and ask if I need something.

Coffee. I need coffee.

No coffee for coateris pharmaceuticalis!

Darn.

I’ve considered bringing more of my life into the coating room. Back in the day I’d write blog posts on paper towels, but I found out this was strictly verboten and was forced to cease and desist. They can’t stop me from composing them mentally, though, along with grocery lists, to-do lists, menu plans–heck, even monthly budgets.

I also thought about working out while the pan was running (after all you can do squats anywhere). But the thought of being observed by a troop of people in white lab-coats while performing a set of lunges was a bit too far to stretch my imagination.

Pacing it is.

The good news is that I have plenty of time to contemplate the deep mysteries of life–like, if I was a zoo animal, what animal would I be?

After much thought, I decided I was an ape because I could totally see an ape (in blue scrubs) doing my job (while whistling).

The difficulty would be the hairnet…

I know there is life outside the process room, and if some ninja-penguins or PETA activists would just bust me out, I’d see it. So tell me: what zoo animal are you, and what does your habitat look like? Then when I’m stuck pacing in mine I’ll have something to think about.

And how do I get them to bring me coffee?

The Great Pizza Failure

I wanted pizza something awful, today.  And when I want something, I don’t let go easily.

I may have mentioned this low-glycemic lifestyle of mine.  Pizza is part of it as long as it has a suitable, low-carb crust.  I’ve tried cauliflower crust–not so great.  I’ve tried flax crust–icky. They both taste like eggs.  Back when I ate real conventional pizza, I was obsessed with getting the crust right.  I finally perfected it–and then I quit wheat.

So today on break I searched ‘low glycemic pizza crust’ and found a recipe with promise: almond flour crust.  I picked up toppings, and when Wal-Mart had no almond flour, I decided to try grinding my own.

Yeah, that didn’t work.

I tried the crust before I topped it.  It was… chewy.  And i don’t mean that nice chewy, like French bread, or a chocolate-chip cookie.  I mean like the kind of chewy you don’t want milk to be.

But I wanted pizza.  Surely if I had regular, find-ground almond flour, the crust would be good.  It seemed okay, but for the texture.  So I said ‘to heck with it–it’s Friday night and I’ve got nowhere to be’ and shot off to the nearest Superstore.

Superstore was out of almond flour.

“Sh–!” I said.  (Sorry Mom. This entire escapade involved a few more swear words than I can admit to without blushing.)  I was hungry, by now.  It was seven.  I was wandering, wishing I could just cave and eat regular-people food.

Well, thought I, the health food store may still be open.  And I sure as heck am not going home now that i’m out here.  I went to the health-food store.  It was open.  There was almond flour.  It cost about as much as a new SUV.  I gulped.  I paid.  I went out to my car, ready to cry.

This better be good.

When I assembled the crust, it looked okay so I topped it with provolone, pepperoni, spinach and mushrooms.  It baked up looking and smelling heavenly.

**takes a deep breath**

Nope.  It was disgusting.  I ate a piece, hoping it would get better.  I ate another little piece.  And then I just tore the yummy toppings off and left the crust.  I picked up the crust, carried it to the kitchen and threw it into the garbage.  And then I cried.  I cried all the way from the kitchen to the bathroom, and then to my room as I changed out of my pizza-scented clothes.

It’s melodramatic, I know, but it feels like a metaphor for my entire week–maybe month.  Work has been one screw up after the next.  Yesterday I had a ‘competency assessment’ after a judgment call of mine went sour and I screwed up a coat.  Today my senior operator pulled me out of my process room and took me aside to discuss another mistake–a mistake that resulted when coworkers pulled me in to help sort out an issue.

I threw up my hands and said to the senior op, “Why did they have to ask me?”

“Because they think of you as the next subject matter expert in coating,” he said.

I squinted at him.  “Thank you for saying that.”

“No really,” he said.  “When I make my schedule in the morning, I only have a couple of people I can trust to run a pan on their own and you are one of them.”

I hoped he was serious.  I said to him “Are these the kind of speed bumps I have to hurdle to become an SME? (subject matter expert)”

He turned and looked at me.  “Hey, I only know what I know because I f—ed up so many times.”

Unfortunately, it seems life is like that.  We must go from failure to failure to succeed.  It’s crossed my mind that, perhaps, I should be encouraged by the volume of my failures. They are, in part, because I’ve been asserting a lot more independence, even branching out and training a coworker.

I remember four different coworkers (a senior operator, a supervisor and two training specialists) who have told me stories of big, big failures they’ve had on the job–lectures from quality analysts, thousands of dollars of product wasted.  But they’re still there, and much more successful than I am.

It puts my mess into perspective, even if it doesn’t take away the sting.

Thomas Edison said “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”  Almond crust is out.  But I have low-carb pitas that are coming soon.  And you can be darn sure I’ll have pizza then.  In this life, or the next, I shall have my pizza.

Playing Hooky… From Everything

I’ve been lazy this week. No, not lazy, maybe desperate. Desperate for a little sanity.

So I haven’t kept to my rigid blogging schedule. I haven’t been listening to my audios. I haven’t kept up with the dishes. I didn’t even write a to-do list for the week. What the heck is wrong with me?

I’m playing hooky.

I hear that Winston Churchill, in the heat of World War 2, would take time to paint water-colours. i think it was Ronald Reagan who chopped wood on his ranch. Some famous person was famous for napping. So I figure I can cut myself a little slack and do something useless from time to time.

Not that watching Catching Fire is useless, per se, but it’s not like me to watch TV more than once in a week. This week, at least three times.

I’ve been reading a lot instead of working on social media. That hasn’t been helping, because I’m reading Thank you For Your Service, which is about American Soldiers returning from Iraq with PTSD, or traumatic brain injuries. It’s research for my novel, but it’s heavy stuff.

So, all in all, not a recipe for a great mood or a lot of energy.

My monthly goals are probably going to go to the dogs, but I suppose it’ll be okay. I don’t know that one week of hooky will make a big difference, in the scope of a lifetime.