I have a job I love and I’m never ever ever going to retire. I’ll probably die in the classroom in the middle of explaining why the statement “A feces is a person, too,” is incorrect, or maybe reliving the day Jon Stewart left me or ranting about the over-heated room.
But I have been traumatized. It’s possible I will need therapy. Well, more therapy.
Remember how much I hate change and inconsistency (unless I want you to change or I am being inconsistent)? I mean, I’ve devoted whole blogs to it. I’ve lain awake nights worrying about the possibility of a zombie apocalypse or becoming allergic to wine or being abducted by a serial killer. If all my “What ifs” were cookies, I could put Mrs. Fields, the Keebler Elves, and Famous Amos out of business.
But for all my worrying I never thought anything important would change enough that I’d really notice, because, as you know, I can be a little self-absorbed.
And nothing ever did change significantly. Until it did.
“It” is the big-ass reorganization at work. In the end, I think many of the changes will be beneficial. But do they have to happen so fast? Some days I feel like I smoked a whole bag of pot and took off running backwards uphill in stiletto heels with my eyes closed.
Not that I would know anything about smoking pot. I just hear things. And I’m a writer. I can imagine. Or just make it up. Whatever.
My point, and I do have one, is that I’m being so bombarded by change that half the time I don’t know where I am or where I’m going or what I’m supposed to be doing or who I ought to be doing it with.
Oh, yeah. I know some of you smart-asses are saying, “What’s new about that?” Look, getting lost coming back from the bathroom at commencement and having to text someone to come find me was not my fault. Not my fault, people. In case you’ve forgotten, the Mabee Center is round. It could have happened to anybody.
This is different. You try carrying your stupid laser printer around in the trunk of your car because it’s more cost effective to have a few big printers instead of a bunch of little ones. You try to remember where your ID is every minute of the day because you have to have it to print on one of those big printers. You try having your arm get stuck inside the bowels of one of those printers while attempting to resolve the paper jam.
You try standing for 10 minutes in front of a fancy water fountain that’s supposed to automatically detect and then fill your water bottle but for some reason won’t. You try to remember that you’re not in the Communications Division anymore, that it’s not even a division any more, because now it’s the “School of Liberal Arts and Communication.”
You try wandering the hallways with an empty stapler in one hand and a lead-less mechanical pencil in the other, looking for wherever they’ve stored the office supplies so you can trade them in for full ones. And of course I don’t refill them. Are you insane? I am not an engineer or a mechanic.
All that’s bad enough. But today. Today was tragic. Absolutely tragic. My very best concert-going buddy, who is also my second favorite person in administration, and who loves all the same music I love, got a new job. AND LEFT ME HERE TO DIE. ALONE. IN THE RAIN.
I am completely inconsolable. We shared so much! Drive-By Truckers. Robert Earl Keen. Blackberry Smoke. Sturgill Simpson. Sturgill Simpson, people. And cows. Well, that wasn’t so much sharing as it was him sending me a picture of a dead, bloated cow yucking up a pond on his ranch. But still.
It’s possible that you don’t realize the magnitude of this event. I am a Highly Sensitive Person. It’s true. I took a test. (I also know that my hippie name would be Rainbow Freedom and if I was a character on Sex and the City I would be that gay guy they all hung out with, but that’s a whole other blog).
Back to the HSP. The HSP doesn’t feel. She feels. She doesn’t become annoyed at barking dogs. She goes batshit crazy, standing in the middle of the front yard in a nightgown and UGGS screaming at them to shut the f#%k up! She doesn’t just frown when Braum’s employees don’t give her the promised “square dip.” She demands the scales! That’s right. She makes them weigh the damned ice cream cone.
The HSP isn’t bothered by the little things. BECAUSE THERE ARE NO LITTLE THINGS, PEOPLE. .
Nothing is somewhat unpleasant, or mildly stressful. EVERYTHING is the worst thing EVER. It doesn’t have to be. All the Highly Sensitive Person needs is a calm, quiet, CONSISTENT environment where she doesn’t have to keep her printer in the trunk and staplers and mechanical pencils are always full and water fountains work and she always knows where she is and where she’s supposed to be and what she’s supposed to be doing and HER FAVORITE PEOPLE DON’T LEAVE HER. TO DIE. IN THE RAIN.
I told you it was tragic.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go send my buddy a blank text message to emphasize the fact that I am not speaking to him. I may send more than one. I am a Highly Sensitive Person, after all.