Funky. Not the smelly kind. Not the get down kind of funky either. Nor was I Doctor Funkenstein, although I may have needed a doctor.
Call that stupid if you want to.
This afternoon I experienced maybe one of the strangest funks of my entire life. Work has been rough lately, not really in a bad way, just in a relentless stress way, a constant barrage of large detailed tasks with a we-need-it-yesterday due date. Monday morning started with a bang as did all last week. This morning piled task after new task after new task after new task on. I made it to noon and found that I just could not force myself to work on what I really needed to work on. It had nothing to do with not wanting to work. I couldn’t.
Everyone just sigh with me. I did all afternoon. The woe actually made me angry with myself.
I have never experienced anything like it. I reached the eight hour mark, said UNCLE, and punched out forty five minutes early. Why stay it work and pull in overtime pay if I wasn’t going to earn it?
And the funk can not continue into tomorrow. It can’t. I will not survive if the funk continues. So, I had to come up with a way to bring myself out. The answer? Mow the lawn. I needed to accomplish a task, not go home a park my can on the couch. I didn’t hesitate, changed into my lawn mowing shorts and tshirt right away, tuned my iPod to the Van Halen channel on Pandora. The stress began to melt, the funk forgotten as the grass was groomed.
So I mowed my neighbor’s lawn too. Maybe I’m crazy.