A Flare of Stupidity (Mine!)

In bookselling, as in life, we sometimes get what we want at the absolute worst time. Today is a case in point. You have never heard me talk about this and I will not be talking about it much in the future, but I have had fibromyalgia since childhood. It’s much worse in the summer than the winter , but even then, most of the time I cope very well, flying up and down stairs like a banshee many times a day. I do get brought up short every once in awhile though, which is one of the reasons why book sales make me so crazy. I am much better walking than I am standing for hours and the constant noise, stress, and sensory overload they produce can leave me in a dull, glassy-eyed stupor by the time I’m done.

However, now it’s winter. It’s cold, there’s snow on the ground again, and I did not overdo anything, nor have I been unduly stressed. Winter is supposed to be my best season. And yet I woke up this morning in a full-blown flare, every muscle screaming, dead tired, and with a gazillion other little symptoms too tedious to mention. It wouldn’t be a problem except Eric left Friday for an historical show in Indianapolis where he sells books and won’t be back until tonight. Because it was a long weekend and the post office was closed today for President’s Day I let all the orders go figuring I’d wrap them this morning in one fell swoop. VERY bad idea as it turned out.

I will do it – I HAVE to do it – but things got so much worse this morning I feel at this moment like I’m too incompetent for the job. Around nine I got an order for an issue of one of my favorite vintage magazines, The Architect. One more order shouldn’t be a big deal I reasoned, so I happily replied in the affirmative to the buyer. An hour later along came an email wanting to know what other issues of The Architect I have available. Under normal circumstances I’d be dancing on the ceiling with Lionel Ritchie over this turn of events, but today I literally dragged myself to the storage closet, hauled out two heavy boxes of stuff so I could pull out the enormous box of magazines and unpack them all. After I had them all out and stacked in a leaning pile I sat down on the floor and sorted them by years – 1926, ‘27, ‘28, ‘29, and ‘30. Many, many magazines fit that big box, but I dutifully wrote down all the dates, months and years and emailed back. I have to wrap the one anyway, so what would another one or two matter, right?

Right. Except she wants them all. Only she wants three now and the rest next week which sounds like a good thing, but didn’t turn out to be. The first thing thing you notice about The Architect magazine is the extreme similarity of the covers – black Pirenisi drawings against cream paper – and one of the typical things that causes cognitive difficulties during a fibro flare is an abundance of the same thing differentiated by only a slight variant. In this case I had to identify three issues with three different months and three different years. It should have been a snap and yet I screwed it up twice and took photos of the wrong issues. Then when I finally got that right I invoiced only for the two she had added, forgetting the original ABE order which meant I had to cancel the paypal money request after I sent it to her and do it again. By this time I was so upset that I actually told her why I was being so dense, something I have never done before and for some reason wish I hadn’t done now. I also told her that I would have my husband recheck everything tonight just to be on the safe side. The whole thing leaves me  feeling like I can't walk and chew gum at the same time.

This is so crazy I can’t even believe it. I have been a bookseller for 14 years. I’ve worked through many flares, two broken wrists with surgeries involved, and a rotator cuff injury two years ago. Never have I done anything this repetitively stupid.

On days like this I think I need a nice simple job. Let me know if you hear of any openings for envelope stuffers. As long as they all get the same insert I’ll ace it -- even in a flare.