Typically on work calls, all of which are now via zoom or GTM (the worst), I rotate the same tried and true one liners at various stages of the meeting. During intros I’ll throw in some banter when Patricia from Billing/HR mentions she wears SO many hats… “hat-aficionado/actual CEO #amiright!?” KNEE SLAPPER. JK, but these moments of low level humanity usually get a few mid morning laughs. If it’s late in the week I’ll pretend to forget what day it is as we wrap up, “Thursday? Omg thought it was Friday, it’s Friday somewhere, right!? – let’s just connect early next week then!” I’m not sure why I do these things. Actually, that’s a lie. Obviously, I use C-level humor to seem relatable and disarm a potentially miserable and likely already checked out audience. Writing that sentence made me sad, let’s not dwell though.
In COVID times, I’ve had to adapt my conversational coping mechanism as it seems we’re living the jokes from my former lineup. For example, these days I actually cannot remember which day it is, EVER. Monday afternoon I had a great meeting, went through the action items for next time, and then subsequently told everyone to have a great weekend. Awesome. Also, information processing is glitchy these days. I’m now jealous of Patricia who wears SO many hats. These days I’d love a hat, several even. At least then I’d know what the hell to do as I shuffle through my day.
The unorganized compilation of minutes we live each day slows my synapses to a crawl. Those neurons need to be moving and shaking at a least a nine-minute-mile to engage meaningfully with man or beast. 2020 has my mental mile per minute looking more like a hamstring pull mid-race. My thoughts even seem to weigh more. They bumble into my psyche like words being pulled by the slowest prop plane of all time, and then fade from sight just before I make a point. It’s like trying to get credit for a wrong answer on the SATs by showing all of your work. It’s awkward and frustrating and mostly, depressing. Pretty sure the introductory meeting I had with our new intern — the topic of which I cannot recall –scared her back to business school. These are hard times people.
Literally, as I sit here writing I have forgotten why I started this post, my entire thesis has left the building. There’s no one to catch my peep emoji expression except Hudson, and he is used to it. I’d really like to know why I started down this somewhat banal oratory road. Pre-COVID I could be accused of trying to lure you further into my blog with humor, but not these days. When a colleague asked me the date yesterday I just responded, “June.” Maybe next time I’ll dress it up a bit in honor of 2020. “Oh, I haven’t spoken with your IT team since the Koala Fires” …I won’t insult your intelligence by citing the reference. Hopefully the murder hornets come soon so I can add them to my repertoire of 2020 mile-markers.
Aside from mid-level managers in the medium to large ambulatory healthcare world, Hudson seems to catch the brunt of whatever awkward maniacal stream of consciousness I’ve decided to share with the void. Opening a can of what smelled like barf pâté (cowboy cookout was the actual name) wet dog food each day, I find myself doing a familiar skit. As I set down his bowl of rancid dog chum I sing the words “and for you SIR, the usual!” …in my finest British accent. He silently responds as he always does, with a look half worry half bemusement and a lift of the eyebrows.
Unfortunately, the mental gurgle I now add to the symptoms of 2020 causes friction in other, more sinister, ways. Interactions outside of work and Hudson tend to require more thought, more effort, just more to ensure the best version of myself shows up. I do love a good metaphor, so here’s one to paint you a picture of what I mean:
If this year is a rope we’ve been told to climb, the coronavirus has us climbing in a far too tight, deoxygenating mask. The much-needed and crucially important discourse around race and the Black Lives Matter movement has increased the temperature of our climbing environment to 103 degrees Fahrenheit. If you’re black, your room has likely always been a little warmer, you’ve lived with the stakes higher your whole life. If you’re white, settle in and shut up. That sweat you’re feeling is good, keep learning and striving to be the best ally and person you can this year.
Restrictions on movement and the quarantine have the humidity as high as humanly livable. In these soupy conditions, finding a climbing rhythm is impossible as your hands slip and your traction wobbles. Finally, politics, the news, job losses, canceled plans, pollution, fights with family and friends (pick one, all or add a personal shitshow to this list) light the rope we all cling to on fire.
The climbing and burning and slipping and choking ensures that normal interactions require more out of us. What I call a mental gurgle in a work meeting might don a different outfit in a social setting. Where losing my shit at work might involve an invisible moment of fury and a bitchy email, doing so amidst the people I love tends to result in more civilian casualties. I’m a professional after all. My friends and loved ones don’t get the scrubbed version of Brynn. At times I wish they did.
In 2020 I’m all out of useless jokes to dilute the spectrum of emotions a daily climb at high heat might elicit. I know it’s not right. Last week, in the midst of a personal sandstorm I let the heat get the better of me. In a situation that required a smile and no reaction, I responded red faced with two fists up, my burnt and calloused palms hidden by the drinks I was holding. Given the magnitude of my overreaction that night, those drinks must have been empty by then. In a year that requires us to do the best we can more than usual, my performance didn’t even come close. The casualties were many and included those I consider family.
To those involved in the storm, I am sorry. To my people who got caught in the aftershocks, I’m also sorry. Though I’ll keep climbing with or without you beside me, if the latter is my reality it’s a loss I won’t take lightly. You’re my cool water, my ice bath, and wake up call. Food for thought, and tonight it’s pizza as usual.
The Dog Hair Diaries 