Apparently, Talking Isn't Always Helping

Normally, I'm pretty cool and calm under pressure.

I'm deliberate in an emergency. I assess what's happening, figure out what needs to happen next, and move. Swift but sure. I'm the same way under pressure at work. Throw a bunch of problems in my path and I'll swim around them, over them, or straight fucking through them, taking most of it in stride.

Yes, there are limits.

There are times when I let emotions get to me. Usually after I've been dealing with dumbassery for too fucking long. Or when the obstructionists are out in full force, launching a full-court press against the progress machine and sticking their dick skinners into the spokes just to see what happens.

Eventually, that shit can wear anybody down.

But in general, when the shit hits the fan, I'm pretty fucking calm.

I'm the person you want on the front line. I can usually carry my own emotional weight and, when necessary, shoulder some of the team's as well. Keep people focused. Keep us moving. Get everyone across the fucking finish line.

At least, that's what I thought.

Because I learned something about myself today.

Something pretty fucking important.

I've always prided myself on introspection. Life throws something at me, and afterward I tend to take the fucking thing apart. What worked? What didn't? What could I have done differently? What tiny nugget of wisdom can I stuff into my pocket for the next time the universe decides to throw the same shit at me wearing a different hat?

Companies call it continuous process improvement.

I call it trying to be a little less fucking stupid today than I was yesterday.

It's kind of my mantra.

And today gave me some excellent fucking training material.

It turns out that when Dawna is stressed the fuck out, things that would normally mildly irritate me can suddenly become debilitating irritants. And when that happens, instead of becoming the calm, cool person she needs beside her, I can become approximately zero fucking help.

Actually, that's generous.

I can make shit worse.

We spent part of today dealing with bureaucracy in its purest form. We went to the office we were told to go to, where we were told to go somewhere else, where we were told to talk to somebody else, who ultimately redirected us back toward where we'd already fucking been.

The bureaucratic circle of life.

Somewhere, a government employee probably held a newborn form over a copier while Elton John played in the background.

Meanwhile, I'm standing outside in the hot fucking sun.

Not drinking water.

Getting baked.

Getting dehydrated.

Slowly transforming from Reasonable Kate into the considerably less desirable Sun-Dried Kate.

And Dawna is getting more and more frustrated with the bureaucratic merry-go-round because she has actual shit she's trying to accomplish and every person she talks to seems determined to introduce her to yet another person who also can't fucking help her.

So naturally, I decided to help.

By talking.

This was not helpful.

Turns out, when the woman you love has her irritation dial cranked to ten, the solution isn't necessarily to stand beside her and provide live fucking commentary.

Who knew?

Apparently everyone except me.

So I talked.

Her irritation dial went to eleven.

Her irritation going to eleven irritated me, so naturally my irritation dial went to eleven.

Which in turn, irritated her more.

And suddenly we'd constructed a highly efficient closed-loop irritation system capable of generating unlimited emotional energy without any external fuel source.

Scientists should probably study us.

There we were, two intelligent, generally competent women standing in the Colorado sun, dehydrated and pissed off, each somehow managing to make the other one more irritated while ostensibly trying to accomplish the exact fucking opposite.

Not exactly my finest leadership moment.

And that's the part I've been thinking about.

I fucking love this woman.

I want to help her. Goddamn, do I want to help her.

When she's hurting, I want to make it better. When she's frustrated, I want to solve the problem. When something stands in her way, every instinct inside me wants to grab a fucking shovel and start clearing the path.

But sometimes helping isn't doing.

Sometimes helping isn't solving.

And apparently, sometimes helping is shutting the fuck up.

That's something I need to learn.

Not because Dawna needs me to become somebody different. Not because I need to walk around terrified that I'm going to say the wrong fucking thing. But because loving someone means learning them.

Learning when they need your voice.

Learning when they need your hands.

Learning when they need your solutions.

And learning when they just need you to stand beside them quietly while they deal with whatever fucking absurdity the universe has placed in front of them.

We're just starting our lives together.

There are still a thousand things we don't know about each other. Probably ten thousand. We'll learn them the same way everybody learns another human being: one beautiful moment, one difficult moment, and one completely unnecessary bureaucratic clusterfuck at a time.

And today we learned something useful.

When Dawna is already pissed off at bureaucracy and Kate is slowly dehydrating in the Colorado sun, neither one of us should attempt to improve the other's mood.

Find shade.

Drink water.

Shut the fuck up.

You know: Continuous process improvement.