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The Week is Over
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The week is over and the survivors is us. We are they. Whatever. It was positively exhilirating to leave my office organized and in a state of order. The days earlier in the week saw everything in a shambles, reports strewn about, marked up with different color pens, arrows pointing to and fro on the various records and post-its everywhere.

Today was harrowing. Nothing like finding a major error running throughout the data just after it has been "finalized" to give one the jitters and a hefty dose of electronic religion. Oh, please, let this data be fixable. Just this once, and I promise I'll never curse a printer again. Promise.

I guess it worked. I was ready to do the dreaded data dance, when everything miraculously came together and I could call the central office and say, "It's fixed."

One thing. I find it hard to tolerate the interruptors who barge in my door when things are stressful, not going well, to chat with me on trivial topics (I do have a "Do not Disturb" sign). I have the distinct desire to gnaw on their bones and use the splinters to clean my teeth afterwards.

Instead, I smile and nod, and try desperately to keep the train of logic in my head so I don't have to backtrack through the whole mess again. I only snapped and snarled once, a record for me.

At the end of the day, I could click Save, clear off my desk, put the reports in the archive files, turn off the lights, lock my door and leave with a clear mind and a light heart.

It's all good.

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