I feel like I should write something. But what to write? There’s lots going on, but very little of it is light and entertaining, none of it is philosophical or profound, and none of my kids stories lately are very cute or “aww”-inspiring.
Do I write about our gut-wrenching decision about whether or not to adopt Speedy? The decision that CPS is forcing us to make this week? I could write tons on that. Actually, we’ve made the decision, but I can’t talk about it. Not yet.
Or do I write about the management spot I applied for at work? The one where I had my interview last Thursday and I’m told I did well, for what that’s worth? People tell me that my chances are strong, so strong that my manager is making contingency plans to divide up my laundry list of long-term, low-priority projects. Attending task lead meetings feels like attending my own wake. I feel so past tense. And I feel tenously future tense, waiting for the decision that will either snap me rudely back to the past or catapult me into a fish-out-of-water future in which I will be completely overwhelmed. It’s like, “Hi, I’m your new manager. Please teach me my job.” Do I want that? But then again do I really want my present job after being retagged and reshelved like so much returned merchandise? This contingent existence is mentally numbing.
All the while I am still hanging on to consulting projects where I am trying to help people think about the future. And I am personally sick of the future. I want to take refuge in the present.
And lately, in the present, I don’t have that much to write about.