Agenda
Wake up early AF and put on a sequined dress. Attend 7am staff meeting, to be immediately followed by a party for my team in India.
Give out fake certificates with names like “The Smooth as a Baby’s Butt Award” (for being smooth in times of crisis) or the “Running with the Bulls Award” (for fearlessness and risk-taking). Make the team feel like the rock stars they are. Give high fives to my buddy Mark, because he’s wearing an awesome Christmas suit. (See awesome photo of the suit above.)
Post photos of Mark and I from last year because we’re hella nostalgic for the annual holiday bash that the pandemic stole from us. Lame. But at least we’re well-dressed.
Continue to work on power point decks for exec readouts and respond to emails, while continuing to wear said sequined dress.
Eventually decide that sequins are itchy and change into comfy clothes.
Accuse colleagues of poisoning my FB algorithms.
Colin and Mark aren’t sorry. Walk the dog.
Spend time brainstorming with colleagues about our plan to create a new country based on our mutual love of tacos. We decide Sasquatch would be a fine minister in the cabinet, even though he never condescends to turn on his video. Vehement argument about which sections of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho are allowed to join our beloved Re-United States of Baja.
Decide it’s time to put up or shut up and take my Functional Threshold Power (FTP) test, so I have another outfit change… this time into workout clothes with maximum ventilation. There is Chex Mix on the line so I’m motivated AF.
I tell my husband that if I should die during the test, he’s to:
Take my phone
Download the metrics from my ride
Take a picture of my lifeless body
Superimpose it on top of my graph
Submit it to my team Captain for the Bar Fight award, given to the person with the most jacked up, terrible, messy graph.
Enjoy the Chex Mix on my behalf. Perhaps while crying and gazing into a photo of me.
<insert much grunting, swearing, and heavy breathing>
Gainz
Shower and resume outfit 2.
Hover in husband’s office doorway to inform him that I lived. Because he doesn’t even consider the possibility that I’m actually a ghost trying to trick him into thinking I’m still alive, I berate him briefly about how he’s not prepared enough for the day when I eventually haunt him.
MOAR work. Get pissed off that XD wants me to update again, even though I updated it yesterday.
Change into ugly Christmas sweater for second work party. Log into the pre-funk, pre-party happy hour with my work besties. Mark models a selection of two-person Christmas sweaters and I proclaim that Phil would NEVER let me talk him into that shit. He overhears me and enters the fray. He confirms that I’m correct and that he’ll never wear a two-person sweater—even if it has tactile and changeable sequins. However, he agrees (despite grumbling) to retrieve beer-battered asparagus from the oven for my Christmas party snacking pleasure.
Pour glass of wine. Form a business plan to sell fried chicken from a gas station with colleagues. Get disappointed that someone already had that idea. Lose at BINGO.
Remove ugly Christmas sweater and resume outfit 2.
Blog.
Realization that I’m spent. Crash. Hard.
