The world gets perpetually weirder, perpetually more confusing, each day that it spins. I spent Monday in Dallas with a friend with the purpose of helping him prep for a Wednesday interview. Instead we spent hours talking about work, life, and more work–but very little to do directly with the interview.
I didn’t tell anyone I was going initially because I have a horrific habit of turning red when said coworker’s name is brought up. I denied for a full year that I had any sort of interest in him. I’m still trying to deny it.
In addition, I have two opportunities for career advancement that came out of the blue, both of which I’m hesitant about. I never wanted to be a ladder climber, except it looks like life has other plans. If I could be CEO at 43 and retire with lifetime airline benefits at 44, I’d be set (I will be retiring by 44 at the absolute latest — 23 years with the company) (Okay, so maybe I’d hang around until 46 to get that 25th year) (I got to play Manager for the week and LOVED it; granted, I dealt with exactly zero politics because screw politics).
Where’s my book in all of this? Sitting somewhere around chapter 20 and annoying the hell out of me. The plot is moving forward, but departing from all former plans. Never let anyone try to convince you that writing is a cushy job. I may do most of it swaddled in Star Wars blankets, but my brain hurts so bad by the end of it.
What a life. I really can’t complain. I’m pretty balanced at the moment, no major mood swings, and my anxiety is at a 4 or 5, which is remarkably low. The fact I’m listening to Marcy Playground helps. Seriously, this is great music for chilling out.
Off to sleep. I hope you’re each having a wonderful February.