It's not the emails that make me panic.
It's not even the "chasing" emails. (Just wondering if you got my last email as I have had no reply?)
It's the "chasing-the-chasing" emails. The ones with two red exclamation marks. The ones that are either super-pissed off—As I mentioned in my TWO previous emails—or else faux-concerned and sarcastic—I'm starting to wonder whether you have been trapped down a well or suffered some other calamity??
Those are the ones that make my chest spasm and my left eye start twitching. Especially when I realize I forgot to flag them. My life is governed by the flagged email, my life. But I forgot to flag the latest one and that was days ago and now my colleague sounds pretty pissed off, although he's being nice: Seriously, is everything OK with you, Sasha? So now I feel even more guilty. He’s a nice guy. He’s reasonable. It’s not his fault I’m doing the work of three people and keep dropping all the plates.
I work for Zoose, the travel app that’s everywhere right now. You didn’t use Zoose? That’s our latest ad campaign, and it’s genuinely a good app. Wherever you want to go in the world, Zoose finds you instant itineraries, bargain tickets, and a great rewards program. I’m director of special promotions, covering fourteen territories. The fancy title lured me into the job, I’ll be honest. And the fact that Zoose is such a buzzy start-up. When I tell people about my job, they say, “Oh, that! I’ve seen it advertised on the tube!” Then they add, “Cool job!”
It is a cool job. On paper. Zoose is a young company, it’s growing fast, there’s a living wall of plants in our open-plan workspace, and free herbal tea. When I first started here, a couple of years ago, I did feel lucky. Every day I woke up and thought, Lucky me! But at some point that transitioned into waking up and thinking, Oh God, oh please, I can’t do this, how many emails have I got, how many meetings, what have I missed, how will I cope, what am I going to do?
I’m not sure when that was. Maybe six months ago? Seven? But it feels as if I’ve been in this state forever. Kind of in a tunnel, where the only thing I can do is keep going. Just keep going.
I write myself yet another Post-it reminder—FLAG EMAILS!!!—and stick it above my computer screen, next to APP??, which has been there for months.
My mum’s into apps. She’s got a Christmas-planning app and a holiday-planning app and a talking clock from her gadget catalog that reminds you to take your vitamins every 7:30 A.M. (It also reminds you to do pelvic-floor exercises every night and calls out “inspirational quotes” randomly throughout the day. I find it very weird and controlling, although I haven’t told her that.)
Anyway, I’m sure she’s right—if I could just find the right app, my life would fall into place. But there are too many to choose from and, my God, they all need so much input. I have a bullet journal, which came with colored felt tips. You’re supposed to write out all your tasks, color-code them, and tick them off. But who has time for that? Who has time to select a turquoise pen and write, Answer those thirty-four furious emails in your inbox and then find an appropriate sad-face sticker? I’ve got precisely one entry in my bullet journal, which I made a year ago. It reads, Task: work. And it’s never ticked off.
I glance at the clock and feel a nasty lurch. How is it 11:27 already? I need to get on. Get on, Sasha.