I'm sick of me, too!
About four weeks ago, I stumbled into volunteering to be part of an international charity event in Lagos called Small World. I thought I was volunteering to write a three-minute skit for the American Women's Club, but in a "Three's Company" kind of mix-up, realized that I might be expected to pull the whole thing together (albeit with some very talented co-chairs). After a rocky start, we pulled together a team of people crazy enough to go along with me and with about three weeks of rehearsals under our belts, we got up in front of more than 3,500 people to perform!
I haven't been that stressed out in a while.
I had no idea what I was doing. I don't know what works on stage. I don't know how to act. I don't know about costumes or makeup. Or directing. Or choreography. Or clowns. Or, or, or... Anything!
So I had to do something I really hate to do. I had to ask for help. I asked EVERYONE for help. I asked my friends for help, my husband, my children, my driver, my steward, the Small World entertainment committee, the American school ... even complete strangers!
And when I had asked everyone for help, I demanded more help. I scheduled rehearsals two and three times a week in the evenings. My driver helped me haul a balance beam from the American school to the dance studio, from the dance studio to the British school, from the British school to our apartment building and finally back to the American school. And it was heavy. Really heavy. And looooong.
My friend's daughter babysat for my children night after night. Bedtimes were missed night after night. My children are manic with exhaustion, and still haven't fully recovered. Last night, Dane went to bed at 5:30 p.m. without dinner and didn't wake up 'til this morning.
I pushed and cajoled my volunteer performers like an ego-maniacal director. They were volunteers and I pushed them into forced labor. And to top it off, they didn't even get free admission to the event. They had to pay for the privilege.
Let's not even talk about what this did to my marriage. Let's just say that I've pushed that sacred institution to the edge as well. My poor husband is sick in his bed, as I write. (In fact, I'm supposed to be making his lunch right now, oops!)
I feel like I have worn out my welcome everywhere I go. I imagine they're sick of me and, frankly, I'm kind of sick of me, too. It's time to lay low.
Most of this sickness is all in my head of course. I know this because, yesterday, someone left me a secret little gift. I had hosted a coffee for friends earlier in the day and, at the end of the day, I discovered a gift bag hanging by the door on a row of hooks where we all dump our bags and backpacks. Inside the bag was a beautiful bowl carved out of horn, a bracelet made of bone and horn, and a thank you note ... thanking ME for being such a pest. Not in those words, of course. It was more to the tune of...
So since then, and for a while now, I will wear the bracelet to remind myself that not everyone is sick of me. At least one person, that is.
I haven't been that stressed out in a while.
I had no idea what I was doing. I don't know what works on stage. I don't know how to act. I don't know about costumes or makeup. Or directing. Or choreography. Or clowns. Or, or, or... Anything!
So I had to do something I really hate to do. I had to ask for help. I asked EVERYONE for help. I asked my friends for help, my husband, my children, my driver, my steward, the Small World entertainment committee, the American school ... even complete strangers!
And when I had asked everyone for help, I demanded more help. I scheduled rehearsals two and three times a week in the evenings. My driver helped me haul a balance beam from the American school to the dance studio, from the dance studio to the British school, from the British school to our apartment building and finally back to the American school. And it was heavy. Really heavy. And looooong.
My friend's daughter babysat for my children night after night. Bedtimes were missed night after night. My children are manic with exhaustion, and still haven't fully recovered. Last night, Dane went to bed at 5:30 p.m. without dinner and didn't wake up 'til this morning.
I pushed and cajoled my volunteer performers like an ego-maniacal director. They were volunteers and I pushed them into forced labor. And to top it off, they didn't even get free admission to the event. They had to pay for the privilege.
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| Our performance troupe, minus a few. |
I feel like I have worn out my welcome everywhere I go. I imagine they're sick of me and, frankly, I'm kind of sick of me, too. It's time to lay low.
Most of this sickness is all in my head of course. I know this because, yesterday, someone left me a secret little gift. I had hosted a coffee for friends earlier in the day and, at the end of the day, I discovered a gift bag hanging by the door on a row of hooks where we all dump our bags and backpacks. Inside the bag was a beautiful bowl carved out of horn, a bracelet made of bone and horn, and a thank you note ... thanking ME for being such a pest. Not in those words, of course. It was more to the tune of...
"Dear Susan,I think the giver of this gift knew I needed to hear that. Subconsciously, I am still asking for help: "Help me feel better about myself!" And once again, someone came through.
What an awesome job you have done in moulding our troupe into a performance team.
Bless you!"
So since then, and for a while now, I will wear the bracelet to remind myself that not everyone is sick of me. At least one person, that is.
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| A welcome reminder that I haven't completely alienated everyone I know. |
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