Dear Diary:
Today, like most days, I’m running one-hundred and fifty miles in a lot of directions simultaneously. My in-box sounds like Ms. Pac Girl on steroids. Ping. Ping. Ping. Twenty-five unread emails and counting.
I want to take my palm and smack myself upside the head for ever feeling bad when I wasn’t working and checked my emails a thousand times a day and found nothing, not even spam. I was stoopid. Today, they’re hitting my inbox like a broken bag of rice spilling all over the floor. I want to scream but I can’t, my office has glass walls and people may get the wrong impression. Like maybe she’s crazy? Lunatic? A fringe Line Producer?
I look at my emails again and ask myself what’s happened to live communication? Don’t we talk anymore and then I remember this morning’s ‘quick meeting’ that turned into a three-hour marathon and I’ve answered my own question. “Meetings are bad. They are not the answer,” I say. “Then what is?” I ask myself. Clearly self-reflection isn’t going to help because the emails keep coming. I’m surprised my in-box doesn’t break. Ding, ding, ding. Lordy.
I hate to cut this short, but my screen looks like it’s going to explode and there’s a line of people outside my door waiting for me to sign purchase orders, approve locations, and spend more money that’s not in the budget.
Diary, I know I’m not supposed to be a crabby-ass Line Producer. I’ll be better next time. I promise.
