Three weeks ago, I switched departments at work. I was in my last one for three years, which in corporate time is basically a lifetime. Now? I’m in a new role, with a new team, and a brain that apparently didn’t make the transfer.
The previous supervisor trained me for two weeks, then vanished on vacation like a magician. So now I’m fumbling through tasks like I’m trying to defuse a bomb with oven mitts. My memory? Let’s just say it’s not what it used to be. Or maybe it is and I just forgot.
To add spice to the chaos, I signed up for a 50-mile race. Yes, FIFTY. As in five-zero. I’ve never done one before, but I’m getting my miles in before and after work like a determined (and slightly delirious) squirrel. Exhaustion? Oh, she’s here. She’s thriving.
My friend said she could tell I was stressed when we ran the other night in heat that felt like the surface of the sun. I smiled and nodded, pretending I wasn’t melting from the inside out.
Also, I haven’t worked a Saturday in two weeks. Normally I work 75% of them, so this feels like cheating on my job with my running shoes. I’m torn between guilt and glee. Guilt because I’m not working. Glee because I’m finally getting my long runs in without having to sprint back to a meeting.
And no, I can’t run during lunch. I work in one giant warehouse with no escape routes. I envy those magical unicorns who can sneak out for a run between meetings. I run between mental breakdowns and badge scans.
Run Between Meetings 