Manic

On Friday I crashed. No, not my bike. Don't get excited.

The week before, I was weird. Every night I came home feeling like I'd just drank an entire pot of coffee. I had no patience (I know, I don't usually count patience as one of my many virtues anyway), I was angry, really angry, about things that were small, maybe even imagined. I would walk into Paul's house and monologue for 20 minutes about all the crap that was annoying me. I was frantic, moving forward, plugging ahead.

It's all necessary. Everyone deals with their stress in their way. I encountered the hand-wringing defeatist, and became the optimistic locomotive. I wouldn't suffer anyone's soft feelings of being overwhelmed.

We can do better.
We can do this, we will do this, do it now, now, NOW.
If you can't do it, I will do it.

I don't take any of that back. I will still do it.

But Friday I came home and cried for a while, then napped, then cried some more.

My way doesn't show up and cry and wonder what can be done. My way shows up with energy and strategy, and momentum that will steamroll people less quick to move. What are the steps? OK, now we are taking them.

I didn't mean to feel like a speedfreak all week, but I did. Then I crashed. And that was good.

I did a little more working on it this weekend, but mostly I read a book and relaxed. Steamrolling isn't what I want to do. I have to remind myself to be soft.

Saturday I went to a baby shower, then had lunch with some friends, which was so very nice. Seems I hardly have nice quality friend times these days.

Sunday we ran some errands, I read, we downed a bottle of champagne.

Now it's back to work, but soft now. I don't feel my heart racing the way it did last week.

We all have our own way.
But we are men of action, and I won't sit around feeling like it's impossible.