11:28 p.m. - September 27, 2004
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Laptop: check
Projector: check
16 hours of Powerpoint: check
Directions from Logan airport to hotel: check
Clothes: packed
iPod: loaded
I am ready to go.
This training will be the first of this type, a set of 2-days back to back. Wednesday / Thursday, and then reprise my wit Friday / Saturday. I have Tuesday afternoon - evening alone in addition to all day Sunday and I have a list of things I'm interested in seeing while in Boston. It is likely I will end up accomplishing none of them.
You know what kills me? I'm at a Marriott again.
I pray my Latin materials satisfy the teachers and that there are no mistakes in my grammar; I've never had such a large contingent of Latin-focused instructors before. I will do fine, I always do fine, I will do fine x1000. Should have cut my hair after the seminar; I had it cut this morning and I look too young. I always worry about that part of things, how I am sized up by those I'm training - do I really look as young as people say I do? The haircut is probably too short to look professional but I like it - no unruly curls for a while!
Saw Brad this morning for a good session. He wants to extend our sessions to an hour and twenty minutes - an hour and a half in consult speak. I am dismayed he feels I need more help than 50 minutes per week generates. I am beginning to feel comfortable with him and find myself being open, far less evasive and hostile than I used to be. Talked about the iPod for a bit, explored why I resist presents and help from others, and overall fished out some insight of the huh variety. Mostly we talked about my dad (Brad seems very keen on obtaining information about our dynamic. I wonder if everything can be reduced to father-son conflict? How sad if so, what a waste of Brad's time.) and soccer - he never came to a game of my own because my brother's games were usually at the same time, and by the time I had become rather good and played on school teams, he said I didn't need him to go. Anyway - something Brad mentioned in that irritating way of his, as if he's holding back on some profound nugget of wisdom, rubbed me the wrong way. He says my patterns fit into the general rubric of neglect - I had housing, food, money when I needed, dinners around the table, so neglect is not something that stands out when I'm reflecting on my childhood. What's the rush to label everything?
Scattered!
