Today's Reading
ONE
It's not the emails that make me panic.
It's not even the "chasing" emails. ('Just wondering if you got my last email as I have had no reply?')
It's the "chasing-the-chasing" emails. The ones with two red exclamation marks. The ones that are either super-pissed off—As I mentioned in my TWO previous emails'—or else faux-concerned and sarcastic—I'm starting to wonder whether you have been trapped down a well or suffered some other calamity??
Those are the ones that make my chest spasm and my left eye start twitching. Especially when I realize I forgot to flag them. My life is governed by the flagged email, my life. But I forgot to flag the latest one and that was days ago and now my colleague sounds pretty pissed off, although he's being nice: Seriously, is everything OK with you, Sasha? So now I feel even more guilty. He's a nice guy. He's reasonable. It's not his fault I'm doing the work of three people and keep dropping all the plates.
I work for Zoose, the travel app that's everywhere right now. You didn't use Zoose? That's our latest ad campaign, and it's genuinely a good app. Wherever you want to go in the world, Zoose finds you instant itineraries, bargain tickets, and a great rewards program. I'm director of special promotions, covering fourteen territories. The fancy title lured me into the job, I'll be honest. And the fact that Zoose is such a buzzy start-up. When I tell people about my job, they say, "Oh, that! I've seen it advertised on the tube!" Then they add, "Cool job!"
It is a cool job. On paper. Zoose is a young company, it's growing fast, there's a living wall of plants in our open-plan workspace, and free herbal tea. When I first started here, a couple of years ago, I did feel lucky. Every day I woke up and thought, Lucky me! But at some point that transitioned into waking up and thinking, Oh God, oh please, I can't do this, how many emails have I got, how many meetings, what have I missed, how will I cope, what am I going to do?
I'm not sure when that was. Maybe six months ago? Seven? But it feels as if I've been in this state forever. Kind of in a tunnel, where the only thing I can do is keep going. Just keep going.
I write myself yet another Post-it reminder—FLAG EMAILS!!!—and stick it above my computer screen, next to APP??, which has been there for months.
My mum's into apps. She's got a Christmas-planning app and a holiday- planning app and a talking clock from her gadget catalog that reminds you to take your vitamins every 7:30 A.M. (It also reminds you to do pelvic-floor exercises every night and calls out "inspirational quotes" randomly throughout the day. I find it very weird and controlling, although I haven't told her that.)
Anyway, I'm sure she's right—if I could just find the right app, my life would fall into place. But there are too many to choose from and, my God, they all need so much input. I have a bullet journal, which came with colored felt tips. You're supposed to write out all your tasks, color-code them, and tick them off. But who has time for that? Who has time to select a turquoise pen and write, Answer those thirty-four furious emails in your inbox and then find an appropriate sad-face sticker? I've got precisely one entry in my bullet journal, which I made a year ago. It reads, Task: work. And it's never ticked off.
I glance at the clock and feel a nasty lurch. How is it 11:27 already? I need to get on. Get on, Sasha.
Dear Rob, I'm so sorry I have not yet got back to you on this, please accept my apologies. I must type those words, what, twenty times a day? We are looking at April 12 now, and I will be sure to advise you of any change. Meanwhile, on the subject of the rollout (Netherlands), the decision was made that—
"Sasha!" I'm so preoccupied that when a familiar strident voice breaks into my thoughts, I jump right off my office chair. "Got a sec?"
My whole body stiffens. A sec? A sec? No. I do not have a sec. I'm sweating through my shirt. My fingers are on fire. I have a million other urgent emails after this one, I need to get on, I do not have a sec...
But Joanne, our empowerment and well-being officer, is heading toward me. Joanne is in her forties, maybe ten years older than me, although she often says "Women of our age" in meetings, with a glance at me. She's dressed in her usual athleisure trousers and expensive, understated T-shirt and has a disapproving look in her eye that I recognize all too well. I've messed up. But how? Hastily, I grope in my mind for crimes I might have committed, but I can't think of any. With a sigh, I stop typing and turn my chair toward her a smidge. Just enough to be polite.
"Sasha," she says briskly, flicking back her straightened hair. "I'm a little disappointed with your level of engagement in our employee-joyfulness program."
Shit. Joyfulness. I knew I'd forgotten something. I thought I'd written myself a Post-it—JOYFULNESS! --but maybe it fell off my computer? I shift my gaze and, sure enough, there are two Post-its stuck to the radiator: JOYFULNESS! and GAS BILL.
"Sorry," I say, trying to sound ingratiating and humble. "I'm really sorry, Joanne. Sorry."
...