It's Not Rocket Science... until it is

My disposition is such that I prefer getting along with others.

I’m not adversarial by nature.

I enjoy good working relationships, and I like for everyone involved to feel that they’re carrying their weight.

But I’m also impatient.

My verbal skills are equaled by my mathematical skills, and beyond that, I’m a mega-organizer. I don’t sweat the small stuff because I’ve got the small stuff under control.

So I sometimes have problems when other people sweat the small stuff.

Or, when they can’t figure out how to organize a project.

… It’s been more than a few years since I’ve held a staff job, but I recall a phrase I’d utter at times, while managing one of those jobs: It’s not rocket science!

Mind you, I’d never make this statement directly to a co-worker. Rather, I’d think it. I’d think it silently. I’d think it profoundly.

Perhaps I was being a little too inflexible. Too impatient.

(Perhaps there’s a reason I’m better off self-employed.)

… But then, there was that moment. That first movie I rented after leaving my husband and settling into the one-bedroom where I currently dwell.

Apollo 13.

I sat alone on my brand new, divorced-woman couch.

I hit the Play button.

I watched.

And about twenty minutes into the movie, I missed my husband.

Because, were he there, I would have turned to him, and I would have said, “What the fuck is going on?”

I’m not saying he could have answered that question, but at least he would have been there to be as dumbfounded as I was.

Because Apollo 13 was rocket science.

And that is something I will never understand.