A Meeting Of The Minds

The other day I had a discussion with my supervisors which I’m probably contracturally obligated not to discuss, but one topic of conversation is still my story to tell: my ambitions and goals.

In spite of my occasional grumbling, I don’t mind working for an internationally successful corporation.

Occasionally I have allowed my mind to entertain the idea of evolving my repeated temporary stints with the company into a lifelong career, assuming I was upwardly mobile and not flatlining in the same place I started.
I don’t mind observing that my chosen field of study is specialized, competitive, and saturated with the blood, sweat, and tears of myself and my peppy post-graduate peers. I don’t mind working hard towards my goals. I haven’t minded scaling back my goals a time or two.

My mind, however, is occasionally mush, often stressed, frequently confused, and lately droll. One professor remarked of a recent assignment that it was “a bit cursory”. I mind not being my own personal best in my chosen field of study.

In the past, I didn’t mind slacking when it was easy. I didn’t mind taking what I could get. I didn’t mind milking it. But I want things that challenge my mind moreso than my body.

At work, I mind my Ps and Qs. I mind my business. I mind my authority figures. But if my mind isn’t challenged, it wanders. One day I had to sing the chorus to “I Will Survive” (under my breath, of course) and think about the dance steps from 7th grade cheerleading to keep from crying.

I mind being an emotional basketcase. I know that this hormonal imbalance can be addressed by my doctors given time, but in the meanwhile vultures sink their talons in. I mind that I cry about gossip directed at me, as if I were back in junior high. I mind that I cry about random things I see, hear, read, or think about. I mind that the other day I sat in the break room with a waterfall of silent tears while I played Solitaire Forty Thieves on my phone and no one noticed.

I mind that nearly every page in Sam Walton’s “Made in America” made me cry in America for the apparent dissolution of his American dreams and mine.

Don’t judge me…it was required reading for school…for a future assignment…I absentmindedly started the wrong book and now I don’t have time to read the correct one in a thorough fashion and will likely turn in more “a bit cursory” assignments.

At this point tonight, I am minding a small bottle of Chardonnay, minding the pain and numbness in my extremities, minding the mess Luna made that I lack the energy to clean, minding my mother’s trip out of town, minding a developing migraine, and minding my desire to pack up and head off in some radial direction in search of an oasis, fertile soil, a landing strip…I’m too tired to come up with metaphors.

Once I click “send” on the Google app on my Samsung Intercept, this post will be in cyberspace and on the minds of my few but loyal fans. I’ll mind my hygienic necessities, mind the children, mind the alarms, and mind my bed. I might not mind spending some quality time with Palmala Handerson.

Tomorrow’s another day, most of which will be spent at work, where I will continue to mind my manners, attempt to mind my moods, and try not to mind all the reasons tears well up in my eyes.

View the full blog at heartchasms.blogspot.com and like the blog on Facebook.

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