The final flight
Late again. Always late. No matter how hard I worked or how many late evenings I put in, I always somehow managed to stay one step behind my workload. Today was no different. I was returning from London on the red eye and had forced myself to stay awake to finish off the weekly report. A couple of stolen hours of restless sleep was the best I could hope for. I popped two paladrine pills, ordered yet another coffee and set about my task.
It was not always this way.... well, it was, but I didn't always notice it so much or find it so hard. Five years ago, I was the shiny haired new girl in corporate acquisitions. Arva Kapasi, Harvard Law graduate, First Class, twenty-three years old, eager to work hard and play hard. Always first in and last out I was looked up to by others as the model of the modern working professional. I was forever working - even when I was not in the office. The golf course was a constant source of valuable inside information where over-aged executives let secrets slip over under-aged brandy. I was a member of the most exclusive clubs, drank in bars where gold cards were mandatory and ate nothing but the richest foods. My personal physician, Dr. Kleinfeld, was seeing more of me than either of my mistresses and was earning more in commissions from me than many junior executives.
But recently things had changed. My paced seemed slower. Dr. Kleinfeld of course had a reason for everything and, in truth, he was probably right. But truth was something I wasn't good at and never had been. From my early school days I realised that truth was a veil that underachievers used to explain their incompetence. I could always find a better way of doing things, a quicker way, and a cheaper way. This was the seed of my success and the root of my downfall. These past few months had seemed like an eternity. Rising at 6am on winter mornings was no longer as easy at it used to be. It now took me four cups of coffee before I could call the day my own and midnight report writing was causing headaches that would sear my brain and force me to seek solace in a bottle of Coca-cola. Now do not get me wrong, I don't have a drinking problem. I'm just tired. So tired.
Late again. Always late. No matter how hard I worked or how many late evenings I put in, I always somehow managed to stay one step behind my workload. Today was no different. I was returning from London on the red eye and had forced myself to stay awake to finish off the weekly report. A couple of stolen hours of restless sleep was the best I could hope for. I popped two paladrine pills, ordered yet another coffee and set about my task.
It was not always this way.... well, it was, but I didn't always notice it so much or find it so hard. Five years ago, I was the shiny haired new girl in corporate acquisitions. Arva Kapasi, Harvard Law graduate, First Class, twenty-three years old, eager to work hard and play hard. Always first in and last out I was looked up to by others as the model of the modern working professional. I was forever working - even when I was not in the office. The golf course was a constant source of valuable inside information where over-aged executives let secrets slip over under-aged brandy. I was a member of the most exclusive clubs, drank in bars where gold cards were mandatory and ate nothing but the richest foods. My personal physician, Dr. Kleinfeld, was seeing more of me than either of my mistresses and was earning more in commissions from me than many junior executives.
But recently things had changed. My paced seemed slower. Dr. Kleinfeld of course had a reason for everything and, in truth, he was probably right. But truth was something I wasn't good at and never had been. From my early school days I realised that truth was a veil that underachievers used to explain their incompetence. I could always find a better way of doing things, a quicker way, and a cheaper way. This was the seed of my success and the root of my downfall. These past few months had seemed like an eternity. Rising at 6am on winter mornings was no longer as easy at it used to be. It now took me four cups of coffee before I could call the day my own and midnight report writing was causing headaches that would sear my brain and force me to seek solace in a bottle of Coca-cola. Now do not get me wrong, I don't have a drinking problem. I'm just tired. So tired.
