Distressing Over De-Stressing
All throughout April I’ve been trying to focus on BALANCE.
Something I did not anticipate, though, is the fact that all of this balance would sometimes make me feel off kilter and less in-control. Like a brand new pair Rainbow flip-flops, Balance is something I want, something I know will do me good, and something that will eventually provide unparalleled comfort, but is also something that takes a little getting-used-to, and something that sometimes bothers me a little at first.
I took back a lunch this week. I took it back and used it to get my nails done. Tres laidies-who-lunch, no? Well, one might think this was an over-the-top extravagant and luxurious lunch hour, but one would not fully appreciate it as a necessity without having seen the heinosity of a month-old mani. Behold:
I had already worked more than 40 hours this week by the time I took this lunch (Wednesday afternoon), but for some reason I was genuinely unsettled to be out of the office for TWO hours. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen in my absence. The place would never burn down (I’m not that lucky), and everyone I work for already needs everything done the day before they give it to me, so it’s not like they would be stunned to receive something from me after they expected it. It was truly odd to be out about town in broad daylight, windows down, radio cranked (“Today I don’t feel like doing aaaanythiiing!“), leaving all my documents un-drafted, calls and e-mails un-returned, and files totally and unabashedly un-filed, headed here:
Truthfully, I felt guilty. Guilty about soaking up sun on a traffic-free midday jaunt, guilty about voraciously devouring torrid tales of my manicurist’s holiday weekend exploits, and guilty about merely existing outside of my office during business hours. I know this is ridiculous (the guilt, not the voracious devouring of my manicurist’s torrid tales), and I know I’m more than entitled to spend one day a month (even though I swore to the manicurist that I’d never let it go that long again) alternately gasping at the scandalous details of my manicurist’s Springer-worthy life saga and hacking back acetone-soaked acrylic dust.
I guess this balance is just going to take a little getting used-to.