My office moved this week, or more accurately, I moved the office this week. I did have the help of good movers, though my assistant chose a bad time to flake out completely. She is now done, as they say in Vermont. I sent her off with her last paycheck and words of cheer, nary a syllable chastising her for leaving me to do all the packing alone. Surely there must be some good rationale for such behavior from a person that I had come to trust, but I do not assume the right to intrude on her privacy once she has refused to answer questions.
Oh well. We have all been there. So tired and fed up with a job that we phone it in for days or weeks or longer. So weary that we tread on bonds of long association, heedlessly snapping them in our rush to get on to the next thing.
Moving from one town to another, I have also spent three evenings in meetings in the hope that I can reassure constituents that they will enjoy uninterrupted, solicitous attention to their needs. My tolerance for evening meetings is about one per week, but making change successfully requires heavy doses of reassurance.
I enjoy moving, actually. I like walking into a new space and seeing possibility, then making it happen. But there is no denying how much work it is, how draining of resources physical, mental and emotional. Yesterday I started to feel it. The kind of tired that when you bend down to plug in a printer, you just aren’t sure you have the energy to stand up again. The kind of tired that makes the carpet look like a good place to lie down for a quick nap. The kind of tired that makes you start to make silly mistakes, that makes you think seriously about having somebody come pick you up from work and take you home for a long soak, a long sleep, returning to our animal nature its due.