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Sep. 10th, 2007
Queue was high. We finally got it knocked down to nothing at the end of the shift. Coordination was shit -- breaks were all wonky. Wound up getting mine way late; wound up crying briefly in the bathroom because I was too late for hot lunch & wound up getting a bagel out of the machine. (My blood sugar was shit & I didn't realize how bad it was until too late, see...) Mood stabilized like you wouldn't believe after the bagel. (There's no excuse -- I have assorted things in my desk. I just wasn't tracking my blood sugar by feel & then I was emotionally crashed even though I was physically working still.)
Found the persistent bug at work2. (I wasn't running on zero fuel -- we stopped for supper on the way there. I have a thing for the Einstein Bros.' lox-bagels now; if I can't get my raw salmon at a sushi place, I'll get it with cream cheese and a bagel.) Celebration ensued! Now to fix the damned thing.
My hair is now below bra-strap length. (This is a Milestone in hair-growth.) I think I can count on one hand the number of days I've left it down since getting the new job. This is good for the hair, although my vanity insists that I should try it down more often so that I can display it in all its glory. Then, I'm starting to develop some hair-modesty twitches. Since I have my hair up so often, it strikes me somehow that having my hair down is too intimate a thing to show the general public. (Part of me was not raised in this century.) I don't think I mind showing the workplace, just as I don't mind having my jacket off in the workplace (it's among work-family, and there's no active sun in there), but I don't think I want to have my hair down in public-public very often.
Ah, yes, sun. I've noticed that if my forearms* are exposed to sun, they break out in a gnarly rash. (I thought it was a sunscreen problem, but I think it's a sun problem.) I'm on St. John's Wort, and I know that has the occasional bad interaction with sunlight. So I'm making an effort to avoid the sun, since I can't get off the St. John's Wort. (I keep trying that, and bad things keep happening. I like having normal-human emotions, I like not having regular panic attacks, I like liking being alive, and I like being alive. Unmedicated, there's a very real risk of reversing all those positive trends.) One of the sun-avoidance measures is wearing a long-sleeved overshirt or sweater or jacket or something on top of what I ordinarily wear. (I've been doing that. I have more than one now, and I've been laying them out with my other clothes for the morning. I get dressed mostly on autopilot, so I don't have to think about what I'm wearing; I pick that out the night before when I'm still capable of putting together complex sentences and outfits consisting of more things than some underwear and a toga.) My arms are healing. It's great.
* The only part of my body other than my feet and face that is routinely exposed to the sun
Found the persistent bug at work2. (I wasn't running on zero fuel -- we stopped for supper on the way there. I have a thing for the Einstein Bros.' lox-bagels now; if I can't get my raw salmon at a sushi place, I'll get it with cream cheese and a bagel.) Celebration ensued! Now to fix the damned thing.
My hair is now below bra-strap length. (This is a Milestone in hair-growth.) I think I can count on one hand the number of days I've left it down since getting the new job. This is good for the hair, although my vanity insists that I should try it down more often so that I can display it in all its glory. Then, I'm starting to develop some hair-modesty twitches. Since I have my hair up so often, it strikes me somehow that having my hair down is too intimate a thing to show the general public. (Part of me was not raised in this century.) I don't think I mind showing the workplace, just as I don't mind having my jacket off in the workplace (it's among work-family, and there's no active sun in there), but I don't think I want to have my hair down in public-public very often.
Ah, yes, sun. I've noticed that if my forearms* are exposed to sun, they break out in a gnarly rash. (I thought it was a sunscreen problem, but I think it's a sun problem.) I'm on St. John's Wort, and I know that has the occasional bad interaction with sunlight. So I'm making an effort to avoid the sun, since I can't get off the St. John's Wort. (I keep trying that, and bad things keep happening. I like having normal-human emotions, I like not having regular panic attacks, I like liking being alive, and I like being alive. Unmedicated, there's a very real risk of reversing all those positive trends.) One of the sun-avoidance measures is wearing a long-sleeved overshirt or sweater or jacket or something on top of what I ordinarily wear. (I've been doing that. I have more than one now, and I've been laying them out with my other clothes for the morning. I get dressed mostly on autopilot, so I don't have to think about what I'm wearing; I pick that out the night before when I'm still capable of putting together complex sentences and outfits consisting of more things than some underwear and a toga.) My arms are healing. It's great.
* The only part of my body other than my feet and face that is routinely exposed to the sun
