The Unexpected.

The Unexpected.

Oh, what a blissful Monday.  I awoke shortly before my alarm at 5am, ready to go for a run and tackle the day.  With a plan in mind, I headed out the door at 5:30am after a inspirational cup of coffee.  After getting my kids off to school, I headed into my store and arrived early enough to get a warm cup of Starbucks and still punch in at 8am.  Excellent.

Then it came.  9am.  I’m sick.  Can’t work tonight said my closing manager.  9:15am. I’m sick, can’t work tonight said my closing associate.

The morning backup was already working because another associate had become frustrated the Wednesday prior and abruptly quit.  I called the next backup and she couldn’t come in because of personal family issues.  I spent the next 45 minutes trying to find people to work, get the store open and do many other things that I didn’t have time to do.

So, instead of doing my 10 hour office day, which I only get one per week and try and get 14 hours worth of work done, I was going to spend the day working with customers.  When the other workload was going to get done was anybody’s guess.  Perhaps on my day off?

The Unexpected.  You better be ready because it usually hits when you least expect it and when it hurts the most.

Perfectionism.

Perfectionism.

I haven’t played my guitar because I feel like I can’t do it “good enough.”

My perfectionism paralyzes me.  It is what holds me back from many things.  It is also what propels me to excellence.

Writing these blog entries are an attempt to conquer my perfectionism as well.  I am determined to write through the awkwardness of not knowing what to write and how to organize my thoughts.

For some reason, I am convinced that putting these thoughts on paper will benefit me in some way.

Time will tell.

Boston Marathon. 2013.

Boston Marathon 2013. 3 dead.

I am quite incapable of putting what I am experiencing in my heart into words.  Yet, I must write.  Perhaps, it would be easier to say what I don’t feel.

I don’t feel anger or hate.  I don’t feel profound loss in that I lost someone I know or in any way felt intimately connected to the victims of the bombing.

I feel sad.  Deeply sad.  I am also unable to determine if I am sad due to the bombing or the bombing is simply the frame for my current sadness which has more to due with my mother’s battle with breast cancer, my sister’s battle with her self, my nephew’s battle with intense PTSD as well as many other struggles that I find myself privy to and most definitely am intimately connected to.

I was sitting in my office, lamenting about the series of unexpected events in my day which were making my job a sincere challenge when Todd burst in with the news of a bombing at the Boston Marathon.

Today my concerns are understaffing, getting more credit card apps, my store is under in sales for the past 10 days and our customer experience scores are low.  It all seems so trivial.  I may get to hang out with a good friend tonight, which will be nice.

Today I will go through the motions, trusting that tomorrow will just just a teeny bit better.  Tomorrow I see my kids.  They are my everything.

To write...

I'm 39 now.

That's not actually supposed to indicate any deep revelation.  Simply fact.  I'm 39.  I am 39 years old.  I rather like being 39.  I deeply enjoy getting older.  It provides so much comfort for me.  I feel just a teeny bit better about myself and my place in this world.

It was just four months ago that I finished my MBA program with Willamette University.  It was an incredibly tough two years and I needed to put many things in life on hold while I pursued that goal.  Coming out of that environment has been a very interesting process on an emotional level.

In the last few weeks I have experienced what I can only characterize as a powerful motivation to write.  I find myself filled with the common anxieties of writing.  Do I have anything worth reading to say?  What is the purpose of my writing?  If I put my thoughts out on paper and then actually let people read them, will their opinion of me diminish?  Does this mean that I care far too much about how other people regard me as an individual?  Is this a Jerry Maguire moment in which I reveal all of my thoughts only to experience incredible failure and rejection?

I believe I may have experienced some sort of internal tipping point.  I have some things on my mind and I would really like to write about them.  Perhaps, if nothing else, to use them as conversation starters with my kids and say, did you know your dad feels this way about this subject?

I have read that Truman Capote began writing at the age of 11 and that he would come home and write for 2-3 hours every day.  He compared it to other kids playing baseball or basketball.  Writing was a game to him.  A way to release what was inside.  While I cannot relate to that depth of inner compulsion or that sense of focus, I can relate to the need to release what I am thinking on paper.  And, so I begin.

She quit.

She quit.

She didn't quit the company.  She didn't quit the team.  She quit me.  There are numerous reasons I shouldn't take it personal.  I always do.  I think I take it less personal as time goes on, but I definitely take it personal.

What mistakes did I make?  Did I listen enough?  Did I make enough of an effort to help her feel valued?

It's not as if she was the first person to quit under my leadership.  Not even close.  But, whenever, they do, I am compelled to examine myself and be vulnerable enough to seek out the contribution that I made to the separation.

Leadership is a school of failure.  I read in the leadership books about how a situation "should" be handled but then real life occurs with payroll shortages, staffing irregularities, sales pressure and employee training along with a myriad of other factors and the books get tossed out the window and instinct takes over.

This is one of the strongest arguments for ongoing leadership training.  What we do in practice we will do in the game.  If we don't constantly practice proper leadership techniques in non-stress environments how can we be expected to perform properly when under stress?  Some will, but most won't.  It is the human condition.