The Chronicles Of…

Tomorrow morning I go back to work after having a month off with the newest addition to our family. I’m already nervous about how much work I need to get done after having all this time off. There are assignments for a course that need to be completed, as well as plenty of other items that need to be actioned. Of course, all of that is in addition to the normal day-to-day things that come along.

I found out the other day that they’ve re-booked me onto a course that I didn’t want to do. This is after they also told me that I wasn’t eligible to do it, and that my boss would never allow me to go. When I told them that I hadn’t applied to be on it in the first place, and that I was glad that I wouldn’t be going, they somehow decided that I must be playing hard to get, and confirmed the booking. In doing so, they screwed around my roster for the next two weeks (I still don’t know when I’m working this week, except for tomorrow), and also dropped someone off the course who was eligible to participate, and who actually wanted to go. I’m so glad that our organisation is so efficient.

On a similar note, it seems that while I was away they had an awards day, and that my name was read out for one of the awards. The person who organised the awards (and invitations etc) asked me (after the fact, at a social function) why I hadn’t been at the ceremony. When I explained that I hadn’t been informed about the ceremony or my award, they seemed surprised, and asked me who should have told me. Yep, that’s right. This would be bad enough, but it turns out a few people had been called in to work at the last minute (on their day off) to attend the ceremony, then did not receive any awards. Again, stellar administrative skills from a person who apparently wanted a ‘desk job’ instead of what they had previously been doing. You’re welcome, people of our State. We deserve a payrise, though, right?

If it sounds as though I’m slightly disgruntled, I’m not, I just find the whole situation slightly amusing. I’m still very happy working for this particular organisation, and genuinely enjoy my job. There’s a fairly good chance that my job is changing slightly at the end of the month, when I am told that I’ll be taking a different role. This will mean I get to wear a suit and tie to work each day, instead of the same clothes as everyone else. It also means that I have to do a lot more study over the next few years, but I’ll be working a lot more regular hours for at least the short term.

In family news, the boy is doing very well, and is still surprising me with how competent he is at sleeping and eating. Even if I had hoped he would have learned a few more tricks by now, at least he’s doing his core tasks to a reasonable standard. I’m grateful for the time I’ve been able to spend at home with him in these early days, and I’m a little bit sad that I won’t get as much daily interaction with him now. I know that there are many people who have to work jobs that don’t let them see their family for weeks or months at a time, so I shouldn’t complain too much. I just want to be a part of his life, especially in these formative years when he’s changing so much on a daily basis.

Anyway, I suppose I should eat something and get an early night, right?

I recently decided that I was done with Facebook, and disabled my account.

I had accepted a number of friend requests over time that I wasn’t happy with, and felt that ‘un-friending’ them might lead to upsetting them. The fact that I didn’t really want to be their Facebook ‘friend’ suggests that in actual fact I needn’t worry too much about upsetting them, but there’s another insight into my fragile pschye. I suppose I could have just done it anyway, but in the end the decision to throw the baby out with the bath water (please note that this is a metaphor [Is it? Or is it an analogy? I always get those two mixed up] and that my son is currently safe and well, and isn’t in a drain somewhere) was easier than potentially offending a few people whose opinion really doesn’t matter all that much to me.

I was also religiously checking both Facebook and Twitter on a regular basis, and felt that I needed to cut down on the amount of unworthy religion in my life.

I’m still Tweeting like a mad Twit though.

I’ve attended a couple of work related ‘social’ functions in the past week or two, and they’ve reminded me how awkward a person I can be. I think that I’m usually reasonably competent at engaging in (at least some level of) conversation with people, but generally speaking I find it much more difficult to do so in the context of a mingling event. By ‘mingling’, I’m referring to those parties where there is a large group of people in a room, all spread out into little groups, and you sort of drift between groups trying to fit in.

It’s quite easy if you have a group of people that you know quite well, so you can just speak with them, but if you have a similar level of (non) relationship with virtually everyone in the room, it becomes a lot more complicated. Suddenly you’re forced to wander like some sort of nomad, looking for a familiar/friendly face in the crowd, and then try to sidle inconspicuously into the group without looking too desperate. Working out whether or not to participate in the actual conversation is a social minefield, especially if the topic at hand is one that is either foreign to you, or seems to be particular to the established group of people. Speaking too soon can make you appear even more ignorant or rude than you actually are (which would be quite impressive for me), however hesitating too long can mean missing the chance to actually engage, and being ‘awkwarded’ out of the circle.

The mixed group of familiar and unfamiliar people can be both a blessing and a curse. Either you get introduced to a whole new group of people, or you intrude upon a private conversation and potentially alienate one of the few ‘allies’ you had in the room. At one of the functions this week I sat down near one group and commented to a girl I know vaguely that she looked a bit upset “like you’ve just had a domestic, ha ha”. Turned out she had just finished a telephone argument with her partner and I had hit rather a raw nerve. I left that conversation fairly quickly. [NOTE: this girl usually has a 'sour' face, so seeing her look upset is not particularly unusual. I'm not that stupid.]

The bar can be a place of refuge, as you have a purpose for being there (getting a drink), and there’s usually a constant flow of people to have brief conversations with. The downside to this can be that you end up needing to use the bathroom every few minutes, or else become regrettably intoxicated. I shall leave that last option alone for now, as I’ve fallen prey to it on a number of unfortunate occasions. (Sorry)

On the whole, ‘proper sit down’ events are slightly easier because they take a great deal of the pressure off you in terms of choosing your conversational partners, and if in doubt you can just concentrate on eating your meal and occasionally commenting on it’s quality/quantity. Of course, if you get grouped with a group of people who have a pre-existing tight relationship you’ll end up eating silently and ignored all night. If you get grouped with the inevitable ‘weird’ table, then you’ll know what the host feels about you, and you’ll probably wish you could be silent and ignored.

I’m sure most people aren’t as neurotic as I am, and just enjoy themselves, but spending time alone at these events has given me plenty of time to think about them. The modern smartphone can be a great asset if you can’t leave, or else (as I did this week) you can always pretend you’re going to check the parking meter and sneak home after an hour or two.

My first impressions?

A fairly impressive experience.

To elaborate, I think I’ve been fairly well prepared. As usual for me, I haven’t had a ‘Eureka moment’, so much as a gradual acceptance and growth. I realise it’s (very) early days, but I think we’re balancing things as well as possible so far. Sleep is reduced, but I’m a shift worker, so I’m basically used that that already. I need to think about the welfare of someone other than myself, but I’d like to think that I’ve been attempting to grow in that discipline for a little while now (hopefully I’ve progressed slightly over the past decade).

The birth went reasonably well as far as such things go. The only details I’m willing to share on the internet are the soundtrack (Sigur Ros; Elbow; Mumford & Sons) and the fact that my wife was brave/foolhardy enough to forego the use of any painkilling drugs throughout the process. I was able to be as involved as I was allowed to be, and had very much a ‘front-row’ position. In terms of how I coped, I’m sticking with the phrase “strong stomach” instead of the possible alternatives (“emotionally dead”/”serial-killer-in-the-making” etc).

My son (who is apparently fond of the music of Muddy Waters) is currently in hospital being given a fake tan (I assume that was the purpose of the giant lamp over his bed), but apart from that is remarkably healthy. For that, and for many other things, I am incredibly grateful to the Lord Jesus Christ. I am sincere about that, despite the phrase being sullied by awards ceremonies and footballers on a regular basis. At least Kanye didn’t interrupt proceedings at any stage to suggest that a different child should have been born.

You’re that guy that tells people you’re reading books but you’re really blogging from your iPhone…

Here’s something I heard at a conference I was at on Friday:

“the treatments we prescribe in weight loss for fat people are the same unhealthy problems that we are diagnosing in thin (anorexic, bulimic) people…”

Quite profound me thinks, especially as I note the Biggest Loser finale on TV at the moment…

There’s sometime wrong…

You know that I know you know that I know you want to know what I’m reading, of course the whole world wants to know that I’ve picked up a book and that I’m using the literacy that was taught me over years of training in the NSW education system.

So this is what I’m reading right now:
‘Batavia’ by Peter Fitzsimons
And ‘No Country For Old Men’ by Cormac McCarthy.

There you go.

I should clarify… I don’t hate your birthday – I really quite enjoy other people’s birthdays, I just don’t like my birthday.

This feeling about my birthday has been a fairly long standing emotion, at least since primary school, and each year as my birthday comes around I try to work out why I despise it so much… I’ve tried to articulate it to Fi but I find it hard to even articulate it to myself. It’s not that I don’t like getting older, I’m still in the age range where I quite look forward to getting older (& hopefully wiser), I’ve not reached the stage yet where all I want to do is be young again (mid-life crisis is hopefully still plenty of years away).

So what is it?

As I do my annual reflection again this year I know it’s got something to do with expectations. I try not to have any expectations of my birthday because experience tells me that I will be disappointed, so I try to treat it as just another day, nothing special, just a day like any other… But of course it’s not a day like any other… on this day you get presents, people send you special messages and well wishes for this day, people you haven’t spoken to for too long make the effort to contact you on this day, this is not a normal day. And so, as much as I try to pretend it’s a normal day with no expectations, I find myself drawn in to the “specialness” by all the attention… But this is not really the problem itself, it is just the fuel for the problem.

You see, if I’m honest, I’m a selfish person. I want the world focussed on me. I want the attention. Herein lies the problem. The attention of a birthday feeds my selfishness and now those simmering expectations I’ve tried to keep at bay start to bubble to the surface of my consciousness… on My birthday I want to be waited on hand and foot. I want to do what I want to do when I want to do it. I don’t want to have to anything I don’t feel like doing. I don’t want to be told what to do. I want uninhibited free reign because it’s MY BIRTHDAY! I, I, I, I, I, I… want, want, want… me, me, me…

Of course, it’s unreasonable to think that way, to behave that way, to be so selfish! And it’s just a stupid birthday! You haven’t invented the cure for cancer or brought peace to the world, you were just pushed out of your mothers womb, took a breath, screamed and then crapped out half a kilo of meconium… congratulations! Why do I feel like I should be at the centre of the earth on this day?

This is why I hate my birthday: because every selfish, sinful, & self-serving desire – those desires which wage war so forcefully and consistently with my identity in christ – on this day they are at their strongest. On this day their shouts for autonomy and worship are heard at their loudest. On this day the fruit of the forbidden tree is pressed up against your face the hardest. And I hate that.

There. I feel better.

Please don’t hear that I’m ungrateful for birthday wishes, presents, cards etc. This is me not you.