This Doesn't Make Me Look Too Good

A few weeks ago I spoke with the new editor of a local newsletter that The Fellowship publishes in my area. She is working hard to make some improvements and had asked for volunteers to help out. I rang her up and volunteered (by "volunteer" I mean "agreed to do something, regretted it immediately, and started to plot ways to evade the new responsibility, no matter how trivial.") We met in person at the area meeting of our Fellowship. God love us, if Earth People could see how we run everything they would be amazed that we have managed to stick together for more than a few weeks. It is barely controlled chaos. We are like the band on the Titanic, calmly playing a sonata as the deck tilts and the massive ship sinks below the waves.

She introduced me as the new reporter for the central part of Cincinnati to the whole meeting, quickly making it much more difficult for me to get out of any assigned tasks. We discussed in general terms what she wanted me to do, and I met with another member who was to contribute to the piece I was tasked to write. I left the meeting with a vague sense of my responsibilities and when they were due, which is pretty much the norm for me. I'm sure my friend clearly detailed my tasks but I don't listen when people talk to me and I forget most of what I hear. All of this is complicated by the fact that I hate to do anything that anyone tells me to do, even if it's something simple or something that helps me out personally. I was the kid who listened to my mother's admonitions then immediately ran across the street without looking.

A couple of weeks later I received an email with the information that I needed to write the article. The editor called me not 10 minutes later and reminded me that my piece was due by five o'clock that evening. Here was my reaction: I was pissed on so many different levels I couldn't keep track of them. I was mad the companion piece arrived so late. I was mad that the editor hadn't told me when the piece was due. I was mad that I had such a short amount of time to finish the article, especially because I was so terribly, terribly busy.

Here's what happened. I tried to email an apology to the editor, in a gutless, passive aggressive fashion. I didn't want her to be mad at me -- being a people pleaser -- and I didn't want to have to lie to someone directly -- the guilt would kill me -- but I felt some responsibility to tell her that I wasn't going to do what was expected of me.

The Book suggests that I pause when agitated. I don't pause well. I'm better at moving forward at breakneck speed. The pause helped me recognize that "being busy" meant I wanted to take a nap and go swimming that afternoon. That's not busy -- that's selfish. So I sat down and wrote the article. It took me ten minutes. The bitching and scheming and planning an elaborate web of lies took an hour. You do the math.

My work done, I called the editor who said: "Don't worry about. I got the article already from Claire." Which was just fucking perfect. Before I called I put on my flak jacket and football helmet and unsheathed my switch blade. I was ready for a knife fight and I'm good with a knife. When I mentioned that I had cleaned up the article, she was very happy. When I suggested some other things I could add to the next article, she said: "Yes. Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Boy, I can complicate a piece of toast.