In which a veteran of cultural studies seminars in the 1990s moves into academic administration and finds himself a married suburban father of two. Foucault, plus lawn care.
Since Thanksgiving is next week, nobody wants to have meetings next week. That means that this week was doubled up.
On Tuesday I had 8 meetings. On Wednesday, 6. Yesterday, 7.
By the end of yesterday, I’ll admit getting a little punchy. That’s dangerous, because punchiness leads to snark, which leads to drama.
I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Geneva Convention maxing out daily meetings at 6.
Most of the meetings were relatively productive, with a relatively low meltdowns-per-minute quotient. But still. By the end of yesterday I felt like a pinball, just being bounced from here to there and back again. At one point I was halfway across campus when I realized I had no idea where the next meeting was. Good times.
I know one thing I’ll be giving thanks for next week...