I’m going through a rare moment of anxiety that’s consuming too much time. It’s part of that juggling act I do each fall. Keeping balls in the air. There’s a single ball that’s trying to drop and I may just let it. But not until I’ve exhausted all levels of being gracious. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. But like any Jersey Boy, I have my internal conversations. I have them with myself because it’d help no one and nothing were I to unleash the fury. So when lights are down I play out the drama, scream at the coconspirators, and try to get my way.
In last night’s dream (Note: I haven’t been sleeping well at all) I was on a call trying to ink a deal whose ink was already dry but now was wet again, and letting the conversation flow. And then the volume escalated. And it was (just) me, a mythical voice on the other line, and the phone I was holding. I was ready to explode. Anxious beyond measure. Ready to just walk away. But only after a full-on unload. And then it hit me.
I don’t own a smart phone or do that text thing. But my device is cordless. With all the Hollywood I angst I could possibly muster, I saw myself delivering one more loud opinion and then slamming down the phone. Like in the old days – when you just plain run out of fucks to give. You can’t do that anymore. I miss that option.
All This By Hand
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