So on a recent Thursday, I tried to shoehorn in as much as I possibly could before going to work.
The butterfly garden at the Ronald McDonald House needed weeding, so I swung by there to see how much damage I could do in an hour. As I plucked grass out from between the bricks in the walkway and shaved moss off the bricks nearest the fire escape, I started to think about work. We were slated to see layoffs that day. Nobody knew how many, how much, what time, who, but we knew it was that day. I started to psych myself up to be a good boss. I knew that people in the newsroom would be stressed, bummed, under-productive. "Be nice to them," I told myself. "They're gonna be sluggish and they're going to screw up, so be prepared to cut them some slack and work a little harder yourself to make up for it. Be gracious. Let people talk; it's what they'll need to do. The paper'll still get out."
And what if it happens to me? On the off chance that I lose my job, what's the first thing I'll do? Laugh, cry, swear? Feh, don't waste your time, Jann. Focus on what'll really happen.
Speaking of focusing ... I hadn't been to my eye doctor in more than two years, and frankly I was tired of having to take my glasses off to proofread newspaper pages printed out at 75% of actual size. And I was tired of having to slide my glasses down my nose a bit to see my computer screen, then back up again whenever my favorite page designer pestered me from beyond my cubicle glass.
I'd scheduled an eye doctor appointment for later that morning. When I got there, they were glad to see me and more than happy to sell me two pair of glasses -- one pair of distance-centric sunglasses for driving, and a pair of ... sigh ... bifocals for work. Geez, I thought, I've got no business buying two pair of glasses, but I need them and it's been such a long time, I can justify it.
The urge to stop at Starbucks after my appointment was too great to ignore, too, and I splurged on a big ol' cappuccino and a that-damn-diet-starts-tomorrow pastry.
It was just hot enough and sunny enough that a hike in a county park sure sounded good. I looked on the map and found the closest one, one I'd never been to. Ahh, a hike with the coffee and the pastry ... life is good. The park was hard to find, and had very little parking, which felt weird. How can you have a park with no parking? But I found my way in and walked under a big bridge/tunnel thing to get there, and it was stunning. No swing sets, no nonsense. A creek, waterfalls, the whole shebang. What a treat.
I walked and walked and was a little worried that I'd walk too far, that I wouldn't get back in time to get to work on time. But I took a look around at the big cottonwood trees and sweet little vistas and figured I could swing it. After about 10 minutes, I came to a clearing with a bench -- perfect spot for a bench! -- and what looked like a grave marker, a tombstone.
It turned out to be a memorial spot to a former newspaper columnist, a gentleman who had many friends, countless fans, and had made a great career of newspapering over more than 50 years. By the time I came to work at this newspaper, his work as a storyteller and goofy observer of the human condition was fairly well-regarded. So much so that we were not to change his copy without checking with one of the senior editors, which invariably endears a writer to the copy desk.
And I sat on the bench, a remembrance from the writer and his wife, engraved with words encouraging others to enjoy this very spot as they had for so many years. And I cried. All the stress, all the worry, all the fear -- what a comfortable spot to just go ahead and feel all the difficult things I was feeling. I sobbed and wept and all those other great headline verbs for crying. It was precisely the release I needed, when I least expected it.
And then I went to work.
