I’m the kind of person that gets frustrated. Nothing, at work at least, goes quickly enough for me. I want everything to happen yesterday so I can get onto my long list of things that I want to get on with. Why? I have no idea. I don’t know whose voice it is that is urging me on, pushing, pushing, constantly pushing. 

Of course I never get to the end. The quicker I go, the quicker the work piles up. It has no end. In truth, the very act of doing work creates work. Answering that email means more emails will come. Ringing that person will only result in something else to do.

I find myself sitting in meetings, chewing my lip, tapping my fingers on the desk, urging for someone, anyone to get it over the line. Can’t they see what needs to be done? Can’t they see all of the other urgent things that need to be done? Aren’t they in the same boat.

My frustration is getting to me. I am frustrated by my frustration. I wish that it wouldn’t affect me so and that I could be a bit more relaxed. But then I wouldn’t be me. I might not get down half of what I do, then again, perhaps I might. Who knows?

I ask myself if being frustrated is a good or a bad thing. Is it just a thing? Surely there is a Laffer curve in play here. Too little frustration means that I am not bothered, things are drifting along at their own pace. Too much frustration and it boils over into discontent and anger which doesn’t sound good for my well being. I doubt it would be productive either as people would not respond well if I approached them in such as mood.

As Tolstoy said (and thanks to Socitm): ‘If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.’ The frustration with my frustration is borne from my perception that it will eventually get out of control. That frightens me.

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