Stress
My stepdad came through Houston yesterday, on the way back from a mission trip to New Orleans with the pastor and his wife. All told, there had been about 30 people on the trip, but only Spike, Cool Pastor, and Mrs. Cool Pastor - or perhaps more appropriately, Cool Mrs. Pastor - met us for dinner. "Us" being me, the girlies, and UB. We met at Chuy's, a good Mexican restaurant that's the home of the Elvis Presley Memorial Combo Platter (its real name) and my personal favorite, Crack Dip (not its real name - those NOT in the know, including the restaurant itself, call it Creamy Jalapeno Dip).
No, the visit wasn't the least bit stressful, it was fabulous. No, the title of this post refers to something that came up in conversation, though I don't think Spike ever got the story. Early on in the evening, I got the usual haven't-seen-you-in-forever questions, one of which is, "So how's work?" And I answered, quite truthfully, "Oh, fine... well... except for yesterday when I almost put my fist through a brick wall."
So now, here's the backstory to that comment, which Spike didn't get. I spent three days last week in training. Keep in mind that I have worked there for about 9 months, and this is the first formal training I've been given that specifically relates to my job. In fact, it is only the second formal training I've been given at all, the first being about 5 or 6 weeks previously. The training was both wonderful and horrible. Wonderful because I got all sorts of fabulous ideas on how to really help our customers, the way I've been wanting to help them all along. Horrible, because I've realized how far off the mark we are, and how unlikely it is that I will ever be able to implement the ideas. It feels like our performance measures are set up to make it impossible to do what we really need to do. All of this, at a level over which I have no control or influence.
Thursday night, after the last day of training, I spent about three hours (and stayed up way too late) talking to a like-minded and sympathetic co-worker who is also a good friend. We commiserated over the difficulty of knowing what needs to be done, and not being allowed to do it. I finally tumbled into bed, physically and emotionally exhausted, having temporarily forgotten how much of an emotional sponge I am. I absorbed his frustration, retained my own... and woke up the next morning, having had no less than (and probably more than) four separate nightmare sequences involving work. My head and neck were killing me, a carryover from the day before, and I just dreaded walking back into the office.
When I got there, one person made a smart remark that got my blood boiling a little bit, but I held my tongue. The morning started out quiet, smooth, no problems. And then... and then... I had to deal with the customer of a co-worker who was out for the day, and it was a straightforward enough situation. Program requires customer to work or look for work, customer states he can't due to a disability, we give customer the form he needs to have the doctor fill out so that we can excuse him from the requirement. He was bringing the form back to us, so I had him sit down with me so we could look it over and make sure that was all we needed. Except his doctor said that he can work or look for work, within certain limitations - no lifting, no more than 2 hours of standing, etc. I begin to explain to him what he will be required to do. And he blows up at me. Gets mean and nasty and ugly, all but accuses me of discrimination, tells me he wants to speak to anyone but me since I obviously don't know what I am doing. I smile tightly, transfer him to a co-worker, and rush to the back. I storm into the break room, slam the door behind me, and kick the brick wall... slam my fist into it sideways (note to self: do not slam fist into brick wall while wearing metal cuff bracelet)... slap my open palm against the stucco wall (were it a fist, it would have gone through the wall).. and collapse against the wall in tears. This, of course, brings in a gaggle of co-workers, who in different degrees understand that there is more going on than just one jackass client.
So yeah. Fine, except for when I almost put my fist through a brick wall.
No, the visit wasn't the least bit stressful, it was fabulous. No, the title of this post refers to something that came up in conversation, though I don't think Spike ever got the story. Early on in the evening, I got the usual haven't-seen-you-in-forever questions, one of which is, "So how's work?" And I answered, quite truthfully, "Oh, fine... well... except for yesterday when I almost put my fist through a brick wall."
So now, here's the backstory to that comment, which Spike didn't get. I spent three days last week in training. Keep in mind that I have worked there for about 9 months, and this is the first formal training I've been given that specifically relates to my job. In fact, it is only the second formal training I've been given at all, the first being about 5 or 6 weeks previously. The training was both wonderful and horrible. Wonderful because I got all sorts of fabulous ideas on how to really help our customers, the way I've been wanting to help them all along. Horrible, because I've realized how far off the mark we are, and how unlikely it is that I will ever be able to implement the ideas. It feels like our performance measures are set up to make it impossible to do what we really need to do. All of this, at a level over which I have no control or influence.
Thursday night, after the last day of training, I spent about three hours (and stayed up way too late) talking to a like-minded and sympathetic co-worker who is also a good friend. We commiserated over the difficulty of knowing what needs to be done, and not being allowed to do it. I finally tumbled into bed, physically and emotionally exhausted, having temporarily forgotten how much of an emotional sponge I am. I absorbed his frustration, retained my own... and woke up the next morning, having had no less than (and probably more than) four separate nightmare sequences involving work. My head and neck were killing me, a carryover from the day before, and I just dreaded walking back into the office.
When I got there, one person made a smart remark that got my blood boiling a little bit, but I held my tongue. The morning started out quiet, smooth, no problems. And then... and then... I had to deal with the customer of a co-worker who was out for the day, and it was a straightforward enough situation. Program requires customer to work or look for work, customer states he can't due to a disability, we give customer the form he needs to have the doctor fill out so that we can excuse him from the requirement. He was bringing the form back to us, so I had him sit down with me so we could look it over and make sure that was all we needed. Except his doctor said that he can work or look for work, within certain limitations - no lifting, no more than 2 hours of standing, etc. I begin to explain to him what he will be required to do. And he blows up at me. Gets mean and nasty and ugly, all but accuses me of discrimination, tells me he wants to speak to anyone but me since I obviously don't know what I am doing. I smile tightly, transfer him to a co-worker, and rush to the back. I storm into the break room, slam the door behind me, and kick the brick wall... slam my fist into it sideways (note to self: do not slam fist into brick wall while wearing metal cuff bracelet)... slap my open palm against the stucco wall (were it a fist, it would have gone through the wall).. and collapse against the wall in tears. This, of course, brings in a gaggle of co-workers, who in different degrees understand that there is more going on than just one jackass client.
So yeah. Fine, except for when I almost put my fist through a brick wall.
posted by SaraSmile | 8:29 AM
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