Having a hard time reconciling what I do from 8:30 to 4pm every day with who I am as person. The thing I like the best about my job is the people. I love the people. The folks that I hang out with for coffee and for lunch are people that I would easily have as my friends in the "outside world".
This issue at work is really chapping my ass. I have several issues with this... issue. Shall we rant? Let's rant.
First of all, when did I start giving a shit about stupid, inconsequential things/people? When I was nineteen I was getting rat-faced at the bar, getting in to bar fights and having a helluva good time. Now, I'm not saying I want to get shittered and take a swing at someone that has stolen my pool table, but I do like the way I rated what was important back then. This? This current fucking stupid issue? It is not important. The person that is pushing the issue? Right. Not important. Yet I can't shake the bad vibes. I've become some whinging idiot that wants everyone to like her. Why do I care who likes me? The people that do like me (and there are more than two of them) are really great people and their opinion is all that really ought to matter. For chrissakes, I had a running mate come over to me and tell me that he had sent love and hugs and kisses my way via Michael cause we've missed each other for the last couple of weeks. Let's recap: an attractive, fit, single man is forlorn when I don't show up for a run. Okay that? That's worth digesting and pondering. That's an indicator of who am I because I am who I am when I run, when I go out for dinner, when I blog, when I read on the seabus, when I walk down the street. And any man that misses me, after seeing me sweaty, panting, red-faced and disheveled on a weekly basis is a man worth listening to!
Which leads to point number two: the majority of us aren't who we are at work. I'm an accountant. Like, what? And this is my fault, I suppose, for not taking a chance to do something that would have been more in line with my personality. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And in my job, which is a job versus, say, a career or a passion, I occasionally get shit on. And it's hard to get shit on when you're doing something that you have to do to pay the bills because: a) no one likes to be shit on; and b) it's doubly hard to get shit on when it's to do with something you don't give a shit about.
And when things are rolling along okay you don't hear me talk about work. Work is the thing I do until 4pm at which point I get to go lead my real life, which consists of: eating; drinking; running; yoga; weights; friends; family; sleeping; coffee; lunches; sushi; tapas; music music music; Sudoku; blogging; photography; hiking; environmentalism; drunk texting; napping; movies; chilling on my balcony; flirting; debating; walking; not paying attention while taking public transit; trying to keep my hands to myself; and convincing myself that all the "missed connections" posts on Craigslist are aimed at me. So, you see, it's a rich life.
I have nothing to complain about. Nothing. As far as lives go, I lead a really fantastic one. I just don't like when aspects of my work life spill over and taint my real life. What's important? Is it important that I was able to prove (to my boss who has important letters behind his name) that our company owes NIC on the taxable medical and dental of our UK staff by likening it to the employer portion of taxes due for MSP contributions paid on behalf of our Canadian employees? No. It's all made up and arbitrary and I have a made up and arbitrary intangible job whereby I move figures around to make people happy based on whatever the current rules are. Rules that I don't understand. What is important is that I had leftover sushi for dinner and it was awesome and I got to go for coffee after mile repeats (I was the second fastest girl) with a bunch of phenomenal people and I'm looking forward to volunteering at the Knee Knacker on Saturday morning and then going to visit my family for dinner Saturday night and then running 12 miles around Stanley Park on Sunday morning.
And Radiohead's "House of Cards" is important. And it's important that I biked the Kettle Valley trestles when I was 17. And it's important that I read "A Brave New World", smelled the sweet peas in the park as I walked home, ran two marathons, had someone come up to me in a bar and ask if I was "married married" or "going out to the bar married", jumped up and down on the pinnacle of the Lionsgate when Michael and I ran the three bridges for "fun" one weekend, got drawn into a political debate while waiting to make a deposit at the bank, chatted with my neighbour on the 10th floor, discovered David Bowie, watched "My Dinner With Andre", stayed up until 3am having great conversation more than once, cheered Ironman athletes on for the last leg of their race in Penticton, got a great deal on some new Privos (best shoes ever), ran the mile repeats way too fast and then had a decaf cappuccino. Not necessarily in that order.
Fuck Monday.
This issue at work is really chapping my ass. I have several issues with this... issue. Shall we rant? Let's rant.
First of all, when did I start giving a shit about stupid, inconsequential things/people? When I was nineteen I was getting rat-faced at the bar, getting in to bar fights and having a helluva good time. Now, I'm not saying I want to get shittered and take a swing at someone that has stolen my pool table, but I do like the way I rated what was important back then. This? This current fucking stupid issue? It is not important. The person that is pushing the issue? Right. Not important. Yet I can't shake the bad vibes. I've become some whinging idiot that wants everyone to like her. Why do I care who likes me? The people that do like me (and there are more than two of them) are really great people and their opinion is all that really ought to matter. For chrissakes, I had a running mate come over to me and tell me that he had sent love and hugs and kisses my way via Michael cause we've missed each other for the last couple of weeks. Let's recap: an attractive, fit, single man is forlorn when I don't show up for a run. Okay that? That's worth digesting and pondering. That's an indicator of who am I because I am who I am when I run, when I go out for dinner, when I blog, when I read on the seabus, when I walk down the street. And any man that misses me, after seeing me sweaty, panting, red-faced and disheveled on a weekly basis is a man worth listening to!
Which leads to point number two: the majority of us aren't who we are at work. I'm an accountant. Like, what? And this is my fault, I suppose, for not taking a chance to do something that would have been more in line with my personality. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And in my job, which is a job versus, say, a career or a passion, I occasionally get shit on. And it's hard to get shit on when you're doing something that you have to do to pay the bills because: a) no one likes to be shit on; and b) it's doubly hard to get shit on when it's to do with something you don't give a shit about.
And when things are rolling along okay you don't hear me talk about work. Work is the thing I do until 4pm at which point I get to go lead my real life, which consists of: eating; drinking; running; yoga; weights; friends; family; sleeping; coffee; lunches; sushi; tapas; music music music; Sudoku; blogging; photography; hiking; environmentalism; drunk texting; napping; movies; chilling on my balcony; flirting; debating; walking; not paying attention while taking public transit; trying to keep my hands to myself; and convincing myself that all the "missed connections" posts on Craigslist are aimed at me. So, you see, it's a rich life.
I have nothing to complain about. Nothing. As far as lives go, I lead a really fantastic one. I just don't like when aspects of my work life spill over and taint my real life. What's important? Is it important that I was able to prove (to my boss who has important letters behind his name) that our company owes NIC on the taxable medical and dental of our UK staff by likening it to the employer portion of taxes due for MSP contributions paid on behalf of our Canadian employees? No. It's all made up and arbitrary and I have a made up and arbitrary intangible job whereby I move figures around to make people happy based on whatever the current rules are. Rules that I don't understand. What is important is that I had leftover sushi for dinner and it was awesome and I got to go for coffee after mile repeats (I was the second fastest girl) with a bunch of phenomenal people and I'm looking forward to volunteering at the Knee Knacker on Saturday morning and then going to visit my family for dinner Saturday night and then running 12 miles around Stanley Park on Sunday morning.
And Radiohead's "House of Cards" is important. And it's important that I biked the Kettle Valley trestles when I was 17. And it's important that I read "A Brave New World", smelled the sweet peas in the park as I walked home, ran two marathons, had someone come up to me in a bar and ask if I was "married married" or "going out to the bar married", jumped up and down on the pinnacle of the Lionsgate when Michael and I ran the three bridges for "fun" one weekend, got drawn into a political debate while waiting to make a deposit at the bank, chatted with my neighbour on the 10th floor, discovered David Bowie, watched "My Dinner With Andre", stayed up until 3am having great conversation more than once, cheered Ironman athletes on for the last leg of their race in Penticton, got a great deal on some new Privos (best shoes ever), ran the mile repeats way too fast and then had a decaf cappuccino. Not necessarily in that order.
Fuck Monday.
5 comments:
You consistently blow me away.
Hopefully in a good way!
In a good way.
I just tuned in to tell you who you remind me of -watching Woman of the Year with Spencer Tracey and Kate Hepburn. Yep, you remind me of Kate Hepburn.
And what did I get? A treat. Your blog.
By the way what's this crap about wanting to BE a writer - you ARE a writer. What you do with it? Ah, there in lies the rub.
I totally remember that night in the dive bar on West Broadway. What was he, 18 years old? rad....so rad...
No, maybe more like 21? Ha! But he had the cute Gord Downie hat going on, which scored a lot points with me. Didn't someone profess his love to you as you were returning back to the table, as well?
Good times.
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