So I can’t take a drop more stress tonight. I can’t. I’ve run away to my aunt’s house where we had chicken thighs that were cooked like, well, like if Jesus were a cook and Jesus decided to use some Lawry’s marinade on this chicken he happened to be making for everyone. It just tasted ridiculous and heavenly and filled me up, along with a plate full of vegetables that were so fresh you could taste the life in the sweet bell peppers, in the celery, the tomato that gushed with summer. With a side of potatoes, green beans, and ham that Mr. Gordon Ramsey would have to admit were seasoned to perfection.
It went some way to cure the wounds that were inflicted today. My panic continues to rise, my agony continues to burst out of my head as the pressure mounts. This is my show and I can’t get my arms around it at all. Something critical is being forgotten, something that I could fix if I could just get at the problems, but I don’t have time to do anything but rubber stamp and approve.
I think the co-workers finally had some idea that maybe I didn’t have their level of time, their laissez-faire expectations for what this show is or would be or could be. Or the fact that I have a 130+ people flying in and riding in and I don’t know, prancing in, and they aren’t going to be cool with disorganized, smart-alecky staff-people who are going to pass their stress onto them. Them who have paid for the opportunity to be amongst us and to benefit from our reputation.
They got it because I didn’t turn my head during the 9000 times they had to stop by my desk for a piece of candy or to shoot the shit at people around me. I didn’t respond to all their rhetorical, compliment fishery. I said I was overwhelmed. I said I needed to shut the door. They got it, but of course, they didn’t actually give a shit.
Middle of the day, I was staring at the screen so intently I realized that I was about to pass out. So I decided to take my last chance for a breath and leave early, visit my aunt, get some good food and get strong for tomorrow.
I think I had stress lesions and now I must think of a cool, far-reaching country where people sip at fragrant, ice-filled glasses of soothing elixirs while they extend on chaise longues and look out into the middle distances until they are called in for dinner with a single, bright tone that raises no alarm. Where everyone wears thin, gauzy material through which the breeze can pass and enliven the body. Where no one raises anything more than a glass, and this time of day would never dream of heaving forth an argument.
Now, I have to stop all this and figure out what to bring to writing group.