Spinning Plates

Work is going really well. I am two weeks away from the six-month mark. I have officially taken over the leadership role on two major accounts and am in transition on a third. I'm a second on one of the firm's most volatile accounts (The Client Who Shall Not Be Named), and I've been tapped to work on the creative concept development for a new client. The Big Boss stopped me in the Atlanta office the other day to personally applaud my work. People hug me when I arrive in Atlanta; the office banter is getting easier. And so rises the "Hallelujah" chorus to a grand crescendo...and then...

And then I realize that I'm working late a lot. When I'm not working, I'm thinking about work. My email is woefully neglected. I forget to return phone calls or else can't muster the energy for a real conversation. Yesterday, STGD suggested I post a photo of a cobweb on the blog. I was excited about Swing State and yet, I haven't worked on making it what I wanted it to be. I just...ran out of gas. And writing beyond that? Forget about it.

The money I've been saving for the Elusive House Purchase in the Nonspecific Future is sitting in my checking account - my non-interest bearing checking account - because I cannot wrap my brain around putting a chunk of it into the savings account that I set up months ago.

And while I continue to raise my hand for all sorts of charitable causes (an extension of work in many ways) my social life hasn't seen considerable growth in the months since my job began.

But this isn't a post about how I need to work less. Or even, really, how work is getting in the way of life. I actually enjoy what I do. I like my job. So what gives?

The delicate balance between applying enough force to maintain momentum and enjoying the spin is escaping me. Instead, I've got one plate in my grip, spinning it for all I'm worth while the other plates crash to the ground in a heap of fragments: unanswered emails, stacks of correspondence, phone numbers long since dialed, friends unmade. And on that one sharp point, dancing in a wobbling elliptical, is the dish in which I've placed my hope. But if I don't slow down, it too will shatter.