So here I am, six days away from flying out, and I'm starting to feel a bit of separation anxiety. Yeah, really. I dearly want to head home, but I also realize I'll miss the mission here, and the jokers who work with me. I've started my emotional separation ... been a little quieter than usual, except when some bureaucratic hump ticks me off and I go on a tirade. Last week was a banner week for people making ill-informed, unprofessional remarks and decisions and incurring my wrath. Maybe I'm getting just a little bit touchy, a little less tolerant than usual. And, given my impending departure, getting a little more protective of my troops.
Who, by the way, have been working their tails off to fix some system crashes in the AOR. I brow-beat Carmelita not to go back into the office, but to head to her room and decompress. Her idea of decompressing is cleaning. I just heard her next door, singing a Mexican folk tune as she banged around the hooch. I never knew mopping could be so noisy. But her singing was soothing, as it wafted through the thin walls of these cans we call home.
Time to post this and get back to sorting clothes ... what to pack for shipping, what to carry back on vacation. I've procrastinated long enough, I'll soon be hating life as I stand in line at the post office.
Good night, gentle readers.
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