Left my phone & diary at home for the second time this week. No one calls on the phone much any more. (The appropriate comment here is: No life!) So am more worried about not having the diary nearby, feeling a little lost without knowing or remembering what’s been planned for the day and the week and the month ahead. Does that mean I’m stressed? A workaholic? A control freak? Losing my memory (at the ripe old age of thirty)? All of the above? Especially the old age bit? Ack!
But then to me, it also means that I love my work. “Huh? How did she get there?” Well, look at it this way, my tasks are never the same. And I’m totally enjoying the variety. Possessing a boredom threshhold of a 3-year-old, I’d be driven to strangle myself in a 9 to 5 job, or 8 to 6 as I used to have to do. Maybe one day I’ll get sick of this whole yo-yo work load – one minute I’m madly buzzing around like a fly trapped under a glass, the next I’d be sitting here zoning out, dozing off, trying to lick nose with tongue or seing if I can wave my ears. But for now, it works the best.
Until someone stupid, I won’t tell you who, forgot her diary at home. Ugh!