Frozen, or why OCD is a pain.

One month, twelve days of Christmas, and one new year's celebration later, and things are back to normal (whatever that may be). Ozzie ended up spending ten days in the hospital, and in spite of my rant to you all, we actually had several friends and a neighbor step up and help us out with dinner. The in-laws came up to see Ozzie, grandpa charmed the nurses by making up a country song using the information the board Ozzie's room ("Today's goal is pain control, and Heather is your nurse. Cassidy takes vital signs and hopes it's nothing worse.."), I baked dozens of cookies and breads to thank all the staff on the floor, and the first time Ozzie went to the bathroom to do a normal #2, there was much rejoicing in the land (or at least in room 211).
I know, you really needed to know that.
You're welcome.

So then there was Christmas, New Year's, and then a new ice age began. Or, as we apparently like to call these things in 2014, a polar vortex broke out. The kids and I had just returned to school, when the warning came that temperatures would fall to the low teens that night. Now while the low teens may be completely normal to all y'all yankees, down here it was all "WE GON' DIE". For real.  We don't do teens. Ever. We do forties. Thirties, maybe. But never do we see anything that starts with a "1". Until this week. So on Monday night, husband-dear and I bundled up our palm trees using blankets, sheets, and free weights (yes, for real. Listen, palm trees are expensive, and we weren't about to let those pricy suckers die), set all of our outside faucets on dripstand, and I spend many, many hours agonizing over my pool pump. Obviously, our brand-spanking new pool pump comes with a freeze protect function, which means you're good when it freezes. And I'm sure that people not burdened by way too much education would just take that for granted and move on, but I made the bad decision several years ago to spend way too much time researching probabilities and statistical anomalies, and so I insisted on setting the timer on the pump to run for 24 hours too. And checking the skimmer for ice every few hours. I know. In a salt pool. But there you have it.

And you know what, OCD or not, all went well. The pump ran, the skimmer remained ice-free, the palmtrees continued to live, and the water from our faucets created love pieces of ice sculpture on the frozen grass. Until Wednesday night.

On Wednesday night, when I was driving home, thankful that this vortex would be moving on within 24 hours, I got one of those calls that started with, "Honey, I have some bad news. But it's not really bad."
The bad-but-not-REALLY-bad news was that our backwash pipe had frozen and burst. And this is not good, but not terrible-tear-your-hair-out-forget-about-retirement either. See, a backwash pipe's sole function is to drain the dirty water you just backwashed out of your pool somewhere away from the pool. It's connected to your pump, but it's an "exit only" pipe, and unless you're backwashing, there's no water in it.
Correction.
There SHOULDN'T be any water in it.
That is unless your pool builders suddenly start acting like absent-minded professors, and decide to lay the pipe at a slight angle TOWARDS the pump, which allows water to collect in said pipe. Which then freezes when all hell breaks loose and temperatures drop into the single digits.

But I didn't freak out.
Hm.
Well, I didn't freak out while anyone could hear me. Let's just say I did some stress-relieving vocalizing after I hung up with husband-dear and before calling our pool builders.
But they reassured me all would be well, and they would send someone by in the morning.

All would have been well and I would not have been writing this post if my OCD hadn't kicked in. And the husband's. In all honesty, he triggered my tendency to worry by saying something to the effect of, "Maybe you should reschedule for them to come on Friday when you're home, so you can make sure they don't lay the pipe at an angle again."
Naturally, my worrywarted self agreed. (and so really it's all his fault. Obviously).
So on Thursday I called to reschedule to today.

And then the skies opened up on Friday morning with rain. Lots and lots of rain. Endless rain. Inches of rain. And apparently laying PVC-pipe in the rain is just not the greatest idea in the world, so when I called the pool place, they rescheduled for next week.
At first, I thought nothing of it. But then it clicked. It was raining. A lot. The water level in the pool was already to the top of the skimmer, which meant I would probably have to drain the pool sometime tomorrow. And guess what pipe you use to drain the pool?
The backwash pipe.

Frick.
For about ten seconds, I had a heart attack, and had visions of liners popping out of the rail, major bills, and lots of hassle. Then, for the next ten seconds, I berated myself for worrying so much about things. Any normal person would have had the pool people fix the pipe on Thursday. But not me. For about two seconds, I debated a minor breakdown involving tears, but instead, I decided to put all that education to good use. I opened up Google, an empty word document, and within five minutes, had three solutions written out in a smartly bullet-ed list:

1. Use the pipe and just let the water run into the front yard. Possibly use the downspout water diverter to direct water away from pump, pool, and house.
2. Get husband-dear to doohickey together a temporary solution involving a metal clamp and a collapsible hose (collapsible hose available, plenty of spare clamps in the garage)
3. Rent a cover pump (similar to a sump pump) to siphon water out of the pool, which were available for rent in town for $27 a day at a place open Mon-Sat from 8am-5pm (phone number and directions included).

An email to husband-dear later, and we had an action plan. As of right now, Friday night, 7pm, I can tell you that #2 was rejected, on account of how the pipe was 2 inches in diameter, and the hose only 1.5", and we're leaning towards #1. Fortunately, it has also stopped raining.

I hope this is the end of the frozen-backwash-pipe tale, but I will keep you posted.
For now I will leave you with the one word that captures it all and that has seen a lot of usage in my current texting traffic: Ugh.

I'll pray for you..

You pray for me
I love you, I need you to survive".

I need you ~ Hezekiah Walker

Today, while talking to a dear friend, I said the most ungraceful thing a person could probably say. No, really. I told her that if one more person told me they would be praying for me, I would scream. Most likely inside my own head, as I'm too well-assimilated to realize that screaming at someone would be the faux-pas of the year down here in Dixieland, but still. A good God-fearing southern woman does not scream when someone offers to pray, not even inside her own perfectly coiffed head.

You see, the past couple of days have been a challenge, and definitely prayer-worthy. This is true. On Friday, Ozzie was admitted to the hospital with a vague stomach-ache, which quickly turned into appendicitis, which quickly turned into a ruptured appendix, which turned into somewhat of a nightmare involving infections, white blood counts, NG tubes, antibiotics, and fevers. While things are looking up at the moment, we're still waiting on some pathology results, and until then, I'm not breathing easy.

So, as anyone can imagine, our lives have been a maelstrom of madness since Friday night. Not in the least because it was the end of the semester for me, with lots of grading, finals, and deadlines, as well as the end of the semester for husband-dear (who is working on his master's), a promotion and the start of a new job for him on Monday, and the fact that, oh hey, we have a second kid who picked this very week to take the concept of "struggling in school" to a whole new level. Oh, and Tricare was being difficult. Per usual. So. To say we have been stressed out would be the understatement of the year. We take shifts at the hospital to be with Ozzie, confer with one another via phone and text messaging, when we've had the time to cook, we've cooked three meals at a time, because who knows when we might be near a stove again, and don't ask us anything, because we probably won't remember the question. Now we're all in good spirits, everything is working out, and we're getting done what needs to be done, but we're just really freaking busy. So busy that the pool cleaner got left in the pool all weekend because I didn't have 15 minutes to take it out (first world problems, I know), there are tumbleweeds of dog hairs in the kitchen, and our Christmas decorations are half up and half still in the boxes. The logistics of having a child in the hospital are just something I wouldn't wish on anyone.

But what do people tell you when you relate how your weekend was?
"I'll pray for you".
That's it.
They will pray. Now don't get me wrong, I think that's fantastic. If everyone who says they'll be praying actually is praying, Ozzie is covered.  The fact that people in our church are praying is wonderful.
But.
And here is my evil 'but'. The one that makes me blush in shame, yet it's there.
But at the same time, you know, I have enough faith in God to know that Ozzie is good. I pray, my husband prays, God listens, we're cool.
But.
We could have so used some real, practical help. Like with food. Or stupid simple chores. Or driving around. Yes, prayers are great. But you know what was really wonderful? When my neighbor (who, let the record state, does not go to church) called to ask me what night she could bring dinner. Or when two old friends who now live across the country got together and emailed us a gift card to a local restaurant. Those simple acts of kindness made me cry.

Look, I'm not perfect. Yes, I've cooked plenty of meals for people, but I've also not signed in on numerous meal trains. I would just be too busy to cook for anyone. I've refused to cook meals for people with babies who had half their grown in-laws visiting. I've complained about people who needed meals and then insisted you bring the food in containers they could keep. So, yes, I'm not perfect. But I also don't offer up, "I will pray" instead. If I can't help, I will tell you, and I will tell you why.

I realize we're all imperfect. In an imperfect world. I know this. But in a part of the world where people are so hell-bent on being Christian, on serving the Lord, on reminding you that "Jesus is the reason for the season", I guess I feel that prayer is all find and good, but shouldn't you want to put your money where your mouth is?

So, there's my rant for the day. While writing this, I've been interrupted by two nurses checking on Ozzie, adjusting IV drips and giving the poor kid shots in his abdomen, and so I'm not sure how offensive I've actually been. I do know that I love praying people, I love God, and I love the fact that tonight we don't have to worry about dinner, because we have a gift card from Olive Garden. And yes, I love you too :)

Het emigranten-argument

Het moest er een keer van komen. En eerlijk gezegd was ik verbaasd dat het zo lang heeft geduurd. Maar gelukkig, afgelopen vrijdag was het dan eindelijk zo ver. Afgelopen vrijdag kreeg ik namelijk voor het eerst sinds ik deze keer uit Nederland vertrokken ben, te horen dat ik over een bepaald onderwerp weinig kon zeggen omdat ik "al zo lang niet meer in Nederland woon."

Het heeft zes jaar en vijf maanden geduurd, maar dan heb je hem eindelijk te pakken, het voor emigranten welbekende "jij mag eigenlijk niet meer meepraten" argument. Maakt u zich niet ongerust, ik ben niet beledigd. Eerder verbaasd dat het zo lang heeft geduurd. In mijn herinnering ging dat voorgaande keren veel sneller. En ik heb zelfs een paar keer in Nederland mogen meemaken dat men zich op het emigranten-argument beriep omdat ik "toch wel best wel lang uit Nederland weg was geweest." Sja, een mens moet wat, om een argument te winnen.


En weet u, ze hebben allemaal nog gelijk ook. Niet in de specifieke discussie van vrijdag avond uiteraard, want ik heb als Nederlandse vrouw natuurlijk altijd gelijk, maar met de opmerking dat ik sommige dingen niet weet omdat ik al zo lang weg ben. Dat is namelijk een waarheid als een koe. Zo zou ik tegenwoordig volgens mij geen idee meer hebben hoe te betalen in het Nederlands openbaar vervoer (zouden ze ook aan ruilhandel doen?), zegt "rtlXL" mij helemaal niks, de drie L-en of J's of wat dan ook, ook al niet, en heb ik geen idee wie er op dit moment in het Nederlands kabinet zit. Oh ja, en kan iemand mij in hemelsnaam vertellen wie Amira is?

En voor iemand die eigenlijk nog steeds helemaal niet past in de bible-belt-luchtmacht-conservatieve-culturele-woestijn waarin ze belandt is, begint zelfs dat eigenlijk best wel te wennen. Ik weet het, ik moet me diep schamen, maar weet u, op een gegeven moment wordt je afzetten tegen alles toch ook wel erg vermoeiend. En ontdek je dat sommige dingen toch ook best wel meevallen. Zo is de hitte prima te doen als je een zwembad hebt. De conservatieve buurman ook, zolang je hem maar van de politiek af weet te houden. En de oergelovige luchtmachtvrouwen die hun 28 kinderen allemaal homeschoolen ook, zolang je die maar gewoon niet meer spreekt.

Toen ik met deze blog begon heb ik ooit een label voor dit posts aangemaakt. Ik weet niet of u is het opgevallen, maar dit label heet "you will be assimilated". Voor de niet-Trekkies onder us, dit is een not-so-covert verwijzing naar de Borg, het buitenaardse volk uit Star Trek, dat als catch phrase "resistance is futile, you will be assimilated" heeft.  De vraag is nu natuurlijk, ben ik dan eindelijk echt assimilated? Soms, als ik weer eens in mijn auto zit, vraag ik me dat echt af. Ben ik nou echt helemaal ingeburgerd? Ben ik ook een "Too blessed to be stressed" southern conservative geworden?

Gelukkig hoef ik dan maar even een korte aanval van road rage te hebben, of een "you have got to be kidding me" moment met een mega-religieuze collega/student/buur, om te weten dat dit gelukkig niet zo is. Nog niet. Ik ben nog steeds een vrijheid-blijheid, don't-tread-on-me treehugging hippie. Aan de andere kant heeft deze hippie de laatste zes jaar wel geleerd om bijvoorbeeld gewoon niet en plein public te vloeken. En zich in te houden als iemand iets zegt waarmee ze het perinent oneens ben. Te genieten van de kleine dingen, zoals de kleine muziek en film festivals hier in de buurt, de mooie fietsroutes door de omgeving, en het feit dat de zon bijna altijd schijnt.

Hier in het zuiden hebben we een uitspraak, "It is what it is". Mooi in zijn eenvoud, maar ook tenenkrommend in de laissez-faire houding die er van uitstraalt. Die houding die zoveel zuiderlingen aannemen als het op een moeilijk onderwerp aankomt. Maar in deze situatie is "it is what it is" helaas wel echt waar. Ik woon hier nou eenmaal. En dit is niet de plek die ik zelf uitgekozen zou hebben. Maar het is nou eenmaal zo. En zolang mijn beste vriend, de liefde van mijn leven, mijn auto-wasser-boodschappen-doener-maaltijden-koker-laundry-meneer hier woont, is dit mijn thuis. It is what it is.

En dan gaat het emigranten-argument best wel op. Want alhoewel Nederland altijd een onderdeel van mij zal zijn, is het niet mijn thuis meer. Dus. Als jullie je met zijn allen wereldwijd belachelijk willen maken met God-weet-wat-nu-weer, mijn zegen heb je. Ik hoor er namelijk eigenlijk niet meer bij.


Oh ja, en Oma? Zoals u ziet gaat het prima met mij. Alleen ben ik de laatste tijd zo gewend aan alles dat ik eigenlijk niks meer om over te mopperen heb. Misschien moet ik dit mopper-blog maar gewoon eens omtoveren in een bakblog, wat vindt u daarvan?

Uhm, October?

Seriously, how can it already be the middle of October? What happened to September? Or August? Or summer in general for that matter? And even more importantly, how can it be Sunday already, and I have yet to have a moment of peace and quiet this weekend?

I don't know what is going on with life lately. Maybe it's just me, and I have once again managed to say "yes" to way too many things. Or maybe the world is slowly going by faster and faster. I don't know. All I know is that it's the middle of October, and at the rate work is going, I should probably be planning my Christmas shopping real soon, or it's never going to get done, and OMG, when I am going to find time to do that.

OK, deep breath.

So I'm sure that everyone knows about the mess that is the US government right now, right? (And no, I am not changing the topic, this is going somewhere, I promise). And we all know how because they can't seem to work it out like most normal people can, close to a million people have been sent home this past week. In fact, in our street, we have several working couples who got to make do without a paycheck this week. The same couples who just spent all their savings surviving the furloughs this summer. And in case you were wondering, husband-dear is still heading into work each day, and still getting paid. We think. But although we all know that is sad and bad and just not-good all around, is there anyone else out there who, like me, secretly wishes they too would get sent home? Am I the only one who wishes that they too could get furloughed? Anyone?

When I was younger, you know, not too long ago, I knew I was driven. And motivated. And possibly slightly neurotic about doing well. But I figured it would pass as I grew older and more mellow. Because that's what people do, right? They mellow out, slow down, and stop to smell the roses more? Well, the rosebushes in my front yard have literally become an unholy mess this summer, because I haven't taken the time to smell nor to trim them. For me, it would appear that aging means an even greater desire to prove that I am good enough. And nice enough. And smart enough. Which entails saying "Yes! Great idea!" to everything everyone proposes. Research project on the side? Sure! Chair of the IRB? I'd be honored! Another research project? Of course! Co-writing a grant with a local hospital? Absolutely! Chair the international fair on campus! Naturellement!
It just never ends.

Obviously, the solution is to just start saying "no". Or at least checking my calendar/my gut/my conscience (aka husband-dear) before enthusiastically galloping away with another time-sucking responsibility. But people, I am just like Ado Annie from Oklahoma! I can't say no. I just can't. I would, so it seems, rather spend a Sunday afternoon grading than mountainbiking with the husband because I spent so much time on side projects during the week, than tell someone no. Is the world going to come to an end when I say no? Obviously not. I know my students won't care if their midterm grade doesn't include this paper. Neither will my chair. Or the dean. No one will care. Except me.

So where does this pressure come from? Honestly, I have no idea, but I see women around me doing the exact same thing I do all the time. They might not do it in their career, but they might be killing themselves trying to be the best, coolest, most educated mom out there. Or they might be holding their bodies to some randomly set, impossible to maintain, pre-neanderthal standard. Or they might be pushing themselves through school to get that oh so coveted second degree. Or trying to be the most hip blogger the intertubes have ever seen.

People freak out because they're furloughed, but are they freaking out because they aren't getting paid, or because they now suddenly have to face themselves without the safety of their careers to hide behind? I'm sure losing a paycheck doesn't help, but let's be honest, how many of us say things like, "If I win the lottery, I'd have work at something or I'd lose my mind"? (and yes, I am one of those people).

I guess my point, if there is one, is that of all the things I like to think I'm good at, I suck at the most important thing: being OK with doing less. Or, gasp, nothing at all. And I think, looking around me, I may not be the only one. So how about we all just a day off next week and do absolutely nothing? We can call it a demonstration against postmodern cultural demands or something equally intelligent, but we'll all know it's really just an old-fashioned pajama day. I say we synchronize planners and find a day that works and make it happen. Only I can't do tomorrow. Or Tuesday, I have to chair a meeting that day. Oh, and Wednesday is midterms, and on Thursday I'm surveying a class. OK, so how's next week looking for everyone?

The car, part 3

Last week, my car hit the 200,000 mile mark. And today, I managed to roll into a truck. That was sitting behind me. On a slight hill. At a red light.

I know, I'm an idiot. A very tired and worn out idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. I mean, who manages to trip over the corner of the bed and hit her head against the bathroom door? Who accidentally backwashes her pool with the return valves set to 'off'? Who gets stuck in her own tri-top? Who adjusts her hair, lets her foot slip off the brake and does not realize she's rolling backwards until she hits the tow hooks on the front of the truck behind her? Yes, me. 

Fortunately, the man in the truck was grace himself. He was more concerned about the state of my bumper than his car, which, as he said, was "only" a truck. He peered at the mark left by the lamppost, and I don't even want to know what he was thinking when I told him that was the leftover from hitting a lamp post last month. He adjusted his tag, which my bumper had bent, told me all was fine, not to worry about the tag, and went on his merry way. I could have cried when he drove off, and I'm not sure if that was from relief, shock, or fatigue. 

Look, I know my job is busy, but lately it has been kicking my behind. I've cried for no reason at least once already this semester, and that usually doesn't happen until Thanksgiving. And in case you're wondering, yes, I eat well, I exercise a moderate amount (yes, really, i have cut back from Mega Insane to Slightly Insane), and I get an average of eight hours of sleep per day. It's just that when I'm awake, it just doesn't slow down. Ever. And American academe is nothing like its European counterpart, where you can take time off to recover, hand some of your responsibilities back to whoever assigned them to you. Or talk to your boss about how you have too much on your plate and need a break. Well, you can do all of that, but you may not have a job waiting for you after summer. Or, if you have tenure like I do, you'll be teaching your classes at seven in the morning. In the basement. And I think that's finally starting to catch up with me. Not the teaching in the basement, as I'm not there yet, but the never-ending list of things to do. Now if only I had a funny solution to all this, I might be able to salvage this post, but I don't have anything funny or solution-like. I have a job, it's 90 miles away, and right now, it's bat guano crazy busy. So yeah, no funny twist here. Sorry. If you have one, do share. I could use a laugh. And until then, well, I guess it's time to pull out that old military adage, and embrace the suck. 

On the side of the road

It was bound to happen someday. The question was just when. And even more important: where. Apparently last week my number was up, and it was my turn to finally break down on the side of the road. All things considered, I got really lucky. First, it happened on a Monday, and as we all know, Mondays suck anyway. Second, it happened right as I turned on to the interstate, which a) put me within fifteen miles of my house, and b) meant the next exit was a mile away. Third, it was only a sort of breakdown. Obviously, a breakdown is a breakdown since it always involves something that prevents you from driving, but in my case, it wasn't an engine, or a tire. It was a wheel well cover. Yeah. I know, I didn't even know my car had such a thing, but it does. And when it comes loose, it prevents your tire from properly turning, which means you're not really going anywhere, except to a place to stop really quickly. 

I am not quite sure how it happened. My car has been the victim of retreads on several momentous occasions, including one where half my fender liner was scraping along the interstate, but husband-dear always managed to fnagle it all back together with tie wraps and a hair dryer. So whether I ran into some retread and just never noticed it, or whether the two dozen tie wraps finally gave up, I really don't know. All I know is that I had just merged on to the interstate  when a loud screeching noise made me look over at the car beside me and think something ungracious about people who do not take care of their cars. But the car passed and the noise continued. When I noticed my car wasn't steering properly, I realized it was me. And that I better get off the road asap. 

So there I was, parked at a deserted gas station, at 6:45 in the morning, in my cute black and green dress and matching pumps, looking at this:

So what does any self-respecting, liberated, third-wave feminist do? 

Call her husband of course. 

Who turned out to not be at his desk. Nor answering his cell phone. Some digging into my early morning memory made me remember that husband-dear was at PT. And I'm sure my ever-patieny husband was just thrilled to hear his name broadcast over the PA system, and then to have the gym front desk clerk tell him his wife was stranded by the side of the road. Just thrilled. 

I was definitely not responding in my usual manner. I mean, one would expect me to be freaking out about the three classes and two meetings I needed to be getting ready for, the weird guys loitering about, none of whom stopped to ask if I needed help, and work, but I didn't. I did the math, figured that in an ideal world I would be fifteen minutes late to my first class, emailed my class and our department secretary, listened to NPR, and just chilled

Strange. I know. Well, I figured, at least I could count on husband-dear to be frustrated. Right?

Wrong. When husband-dear pulled up, he was grace personified. He drove right over, only stopping by the house to pick up his toolbox, and was his usual chipper 'we'll fix this in a jiffy' self. Only he couldn't. And after observing the numerous men pulling up to the gas station, loitering, and staring at me, he went all manly and told me to take the CRV while he took my poor little Fit into the shop. 

So there I was, an hour later than usual, driving down a now deserted interstate, in a still almost new CRV with leather seats, cruise control, and a whole host of other gadgets, and I realized that maybe breaking down wasn't such a bad thing after all...

Ik ben een meisje van negen jaar...

Of zestien dan. Of, als ik me bijzonder volwassen voel, eenentwintig. Maar dan heb je het ook wel gehad. Nooit, maar dan ook nooit voel ik mij mijn ware leeftijd (29. Al jaren. Echt). En ik voel me al helemaal nooit "Dr", of "professor". Laat staan "de vrouw van". En laten we het maar helemaal niet hebben over dat hele stiefmoeder gedoe. Ik ben negen. Of zestien (of 21), en als ik later groot ben wil ik brandweervrouw worden.

Ik heb zo eens rondgevraagd, en klaarblijkelijk hebben wel meer, voornamelijk vrouwelijke, collega's hier last van. Het geval dat je veel jonger, veel onervarener, en ook veel minder slim bent dan dat je bent. Of dat men denkt dat je bent. Of dan de indruk die jij hebt achtergelaten. Volgt u het allemaal nog? Stiekem zijn we allemaal 'frauds' die nog lang niet klaar zijn om een 'working professional' te zijn, en die hun PhD bij elkaar gespaard hebben met de zegeltjes van de Becel. Of, om cultureel-relevant te blijven, met de pakjes Cracker Jacks.

En soms is dat best wel lastig. Want dan word je in een keer voor dingen gevraagd waar je als negen (of 16) jarige nog helemaal niet aan toe bent. Of denkt te zijn. Zo werd ik van de zomer gevraagd om "chair" van de IRB aan mijn universiteit te zijn. En uiteraard riep ik meteen ja, want naast dat ik klaarblijkelijk moeite heb met tellen, ben ik ook nog eens een ontzettende type-A persoonlijkheid, die altijd moet bewijzen dat ze toch echt slim is. En weet wat ze doet. En alles kan.
Maar ja, dan zit je daar dus. Als kersverse chair van de IRB. Dan in een keer word jij geacht leiding te geven aan het orgaan dat onderzoek goed- of afkeurt. En dat onderbouwd met bewijslast uit federale stukken. En meer van dat soort moeilijke dingen. En alhoewel je dat best kan, want sja, je bent al vier jaar lid van de IRB, roept je hoofd steeds dat dit natuurlijk helemaal geen taak is voor een meisje zoals jij. Je bent veel te jong, veel te onervaren, en die PhD, dat was natuurlijk gewoon puur toeval. Je had gewoon een paar jaar lang even niks anders te doen.

Vandaag moest ik er echter echt aangeloven. Mijn eerste vergadering. Met de secretaresse naast me, die me zo nu en dan dingen toefluisterde als "Vergeet de motie om goed te keuren niet", riep ik hele professionele dingen als "Do we have a second?" en "Can you design a policy for that?", en deed alsof ik precies wist waar ik het over had.
Pfft.


En toen bedacht ik me, wat als iedereen zich nou eens zo voelt? Wat als iedereen die leiding geeft stiekem een acht-jarig meisje of elf-jarig jongetje is, die er toevallig uitziet als een volwassen man of vrouw? Wat als iedereen nou het gevoel heeft dat ze maar "wat doen", maar dat gewoon leuk, of stoer, of streng verpakken? Wat als iedereen nog steeds droomt over hoe het zijn om politie agent te zijn, of boswachter, of brandweervrouw? Zijn we dan eigenlijk allemaal niet heel druk bezig om te doen alsof we weten waar we het over hebben, en is er eigenlijk niemand die -echt- weer hoe het moet? Does everyone just make it up as they go along?

Stiekem, he, stiekem denk ik dus dat dat het is. We doen allemaal maar wat. Alleen de slimme onder ons hebben geleerd om dat heel professioneel te verpakken. En daardoor denkt de rest van ons dat zij het wel weten, en wij niet. Maar dat is dus eigenlijk helemaal niet zo. Om in de woorden van Brigitte Kaandorp te blijven, "Het hoeft niks te zijn, als het maar wat lijkt."

Als ik er zo over nadenk, dan valt dat chair-schap eigenlijk nog best wel mee.
Bring it.