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Driving home from the project site this morning, I saw an airplane cavorting. It was one of those tiny one-person planes, and whoever was flying was obviously enjoying themselves - dipping close the ground, tilting just enough so that the wings looked as if they were mere feet from grazing the tops of the grasses, and then soaring back into the sky. I watched it and thought that if I just closed my eyes and tried hard enough, I could be that plane - spreading my arms wide, face tilted back to feel the wind on my skin and blowing through my hair. There was joy in the flying and I wanted to be a part of it.
My thoughts are scattered - haring off in tangents every which way. At least with the cold medication taking effect I'm not feeling nearly so dizzy. Managed to stick at work for nearly two hours before I realized that I was not going to be able to get anything done. Being sick like this drains me and I cannot concentrate. Too much to do there, but I sent off messages, tried to wrap things up before I finally broke down and left. This thing - whatever I have - is going around. Two others on the team have it too - we are all miserably snuffling together.
The house plans arrived - rolled neatly into a cardboard tube. I have not opened it - heard the doorbell ring and when I dragged myself out of bed there was no one there, merely the delivery of this package. I am hesitant to open it. There is a part of me that likes to do the thousand 'what-ifs' when something good is about to happen. This is the detailed plan for the house I want to build - my dream house. The one I fell in love with oh so long ago. And what if I open it, now that I will get to see it in three dimensions, with all the tiny details I was only able to imagine from the floor plan, and discover that it just won't do?
After that I couldn't get back to sleep, despite the concerted efforts of several sleepy felines. I took more medicine and waited for it to kick in. I went to the grocery store because I needed laundry detergent. Four young boys were playing with balls in one of the aisles and I couldn't help myself. They were playing with complete disregard for who or what they might hit. I asked them if they were willing to pay for anything they might break. They stared at me dumbly -this grouchy, sick-pale woman pushing a cart. Later on, at the check-out I saw them with their mother, who looked tired and cross, and completely oblivious to their behavior. And I wanted to tell her - see? This is why people like me don't like children. I was raised with manners. My mother would have been quick to stop my sisters and I should we have even attempted to play with toys in a grocery store - toys we did not own, toys which could hit someone or do damage. I held my tongue and paid for my groceries. I'm tired and not feeling well. That's all it is. Of course. That much was obvious as I stared blankly for nearly five minutes in the cleaning products aisle, until I couldn't remember what it is I was looking for.
I tire of the politics at this project I am assigned to. Somehow it has divided into two camps - the development team and the design team. The first part of this project wasn't like this - why does the second part have to be? Despite our repetitions of the fact that we are following the same process for both design sessions, this group seems determined to feel put-upon, picked on, alienated. Many of them are young - prone to grumbling behind backs because it is easier to do that than to face the problem and find a solution. Yet when they come to me with a complaint, every time we have found a solution that pleased them. You think they would learn. Why is it so hard? Their backs must get tired from carrying these chips, yet they still persist. I'm the mean old boss lady. That's alright. I've been that before. Doesn't matter how many times I say 'this is the way it is. I didn't come up with the process, and guess what - I'm not all that crazy about parts of it either. But I learned to adapt and so will you'. Far easier to complain. Ah well, if it makes them happy to blame it on me, so be it. That's part of my role I suppose, and I'd rather that burden be on me than on the others who are trying so hard to get the work done. And besides, I watch them come around slowly and I hide my smile as I give them the help they need. And I want to tell them - see? I'm not so bad. I'm the same person I was when you were grumbling about me to your buddies, but now that you actually broke down and *talked* to me, suddenly I'm not the enemy.
Dragged Zuchinni out from under the kitchen sink where he's been hiding lately, ignoring his fearful hissing. I held him close and pet him for a long time as I lay - half-awake - on the couch this afternoon. Sometimes I worry that I did the wrong thing with him so many years ago when he came to me as a kitten - that perhaps it would have been kinder to let him go so that he could come back next time without whatever chemical imbalance it is that makes him so terrified of everything. He trembled in fear at first but gradually calmed down. I wish so much that I could tell this poor cat, in a way he would understand, that there is no need to be afraid. The people at the project may be just as skittish about approaching me, but at least we can communicate. With Zuchinni I feel I never shall. When he finally bolted he only ran a few steps before stopping and turning around to look at me. So maybe somewhere deep inside him he is trying to understand.
I don't like being sick. I don't have time to be sick. Inconvenient that illness always comes when I have the least time to deal with it. This weekend is going to be busy and I've a house to clean before the entire family comes over on Sunday. I need to gather my thoughts and I can't. They are floating in the air, dipping and soaring. If I spread my arms wide and close my eyes maybe I can collect them and hold them close while I fly away.