On a Rough Day

It’s 8:30 at night after a day that can only be described as rough.  I’m sitting on my terrace on the top floor of my building watching the most amazing lightning storm I have seen in years and years.  There’s a big flash that nights up the night every 2 seconds. 

Today was frustrating.  Frustration is my Achilles heel of emotions.  Why, for example, did I spend my morning working with my counterpart on how we would work together as partners, emphasizing that I was not her boss, only be to called into her bosses’ office at the end of the day to told I would most likely be my counterpart’s boss?  All day I yo-yoed between wanting to punch the wall, to bury my head in my arms, and to cry.  I wrote out everything out in an e-mail to a friend, then deleted it before pressing send.  I wrote a synopsis in bullet form to post here, but even that sounded tedious and aggravating.  Best, I think to let this lightning storm wash it all away.

Last night I had a Skype call with a friend who asked me, quite predictably, “how are you doing?”  I shocked myself by tearing up and feeling a knot in my throat.  What is that all about??  I suspect the root of it all is that my colleagues here expect me to be one thing and can’t wrap their heads around the fact that I’m not that thing:

Suppose that every January your town gets a new garbage man.  This year the garbage has reached a record high.  You’re expecting the new garbage man to be here at any moment to put things right. But this January, just as the old garbage man is getting ready to go, the mayor announces the arrival of a head gardener.  A head what?  You’re expecting the new garbage man! Is the head gardener also taking care of the garbage?  Well, that’s me.  The head gardener, trying to convince everyone, including the other gardening staff, that I have nothing to do with the garbage situation.

Today I took a driving test for PSI.  I must have passed because I was offered a vehicle to drive the 1 km home today.  I did it, which felt like an accomplishment, but not one I want to make routine.  I got home, only to Deal With More Stuff and decided it was also the day to venture out on foot by myself, if only to go two doors down to a restaurant.  I sat at the bar and sipped some wine.  The owner eventually asked me how I was in French.  I answered automatically.  I had another glass.  A plate of roasted tomatoes on crudités appeared beside me.  So kind.  As I was having dinner, the owner asked me in a conspirational tone, “Howarja doin’?”  Is it so obvious that I speak English and that I’m there to put an end to the day?