Last week I had some serious ups and downs all about the toil that pays me.

For one, I applied for another job entirely that had my pulse veritably racing, or at least as much as anything I do for a living would ever get me pumped. Pretty much a direct arc of 20 years of non-profit, but with a whole kind of start up vibe, it hit me as something I’d like to do. It read like one of those jobs that, rare as the diamond when de Beers was full-on withholding, perfectly matched not just what I can do but what I like to do.

Despite feeling good after the initial phone screen, they finally let me know that I wasn’t in the running. Fuckers. I blame the economy and the likelihood of people on a dicier path than me and higher levels of education and experience jamming me out of my dream. Or, maybe not my dream, like sex, ice cream and the chance for a life of leisure are my dream, but at least a pleasant life plan.

On the other side of the workaday reality, we had a solid week of meeting after meeting. But, somewhere sprinkled among the meetings, was a morning spent in a corporate training on coaching. Humbling the experience was, as I realized that not all of my happy inspiring leadership thoughts in my head come out of my mouth just right. Actually, despite the humility, it was a pretty good session.

One side effect of one of the coaching exercises got me re-thinking my schedule. We were paired up with another eager co-worker to improv a coaching discussion that jumped from whatever thing you decided you needed to the coaching. For the woman with whom I was paired, she was looking to develop into a “leader.” There’s a thought I’ve never had. Mine was starting an open mike and, of course, actually writing and preparing for one.

The exercise continued and I got my partner to confirm that she would have a dinner discussion with her husband and plan a future iPhone App or other lucrative Silicon-Valley-esque project. For my project, though, we completely stalled out on the coaching conversation. So, the pro, the facilitator, she walked by and tried a little life support to our convo. What came of it was her nailing me to add writing during my lunch hour to my daily schedule. Coached I felt. Warm and tingly too and ready to update my daily calendar.

I needed that kind of focus lest I got myself all itching for a fight at work just out of sheer boredom.

One of the exercises we did in the coaching class I wish you could walk around and force people to do. I could actually, in a kind of Improv Everywhere, guerrilla action. Unfortunately, without the context of a professional coach, I’d just seem like a completely anti-social asshole.

Here was the exercise in its entirety. Person 1 tells Person 2 about they best vacation of her life. Person 2 does everything and anything not to listen. As anyone who’s done standup comedy at a shithole open mike can attest, there ain’t no low feeling quite like talking away to a disinterested audience. One on one, it’s brutal.

I work with someone who’s convinced he’s an effective multi-tasker. He’s not. It is for him that I wish this exercise was a universal tool in corporate living. Perhaps, with a little theater, he could comprehend just how frustrating a conversation that runs roughly like this one is.

“Hey, can I ask you a quick question?”

“Sure.”

Insert brief question here.

“Huh, what, sorry. I wasn’t listening what did you say?”

Repeat brief question.

TAP, TAP, TAP, Keyboard keys. No eye contact.

“Should I come back?”

“Oh, what? Yeah, I’m really distracted. But, wait, hold on a sec.”

SILENCE, more keyboard tapping. SILENCE

“So, should I ask my question?”

“Sure, sure, yeah, sorry. Did you have a question?”

Repeat brief question.

“Oh, yeah, that’s fine. OK.”

Oooph.

After a week with about 20 of those exchanges, I was overly ready to call it a day by week’s end.

With a week like the one I had (and by the sounds M. shared in overall suckitude in his workplace), there wasn’t anything that could be done but head to the beach. I’m not convince I’m cut out for winter waves and frolicking with them, but we picked up a couple of not badly used wetsuits from a surfer’s swap meet up in San Francisco. Wetsuits do work. Psychologically, though, when the air is hovering around 60 degrees and the water is around 53 degrees, it takes some will to dive into the waves.

Nothing clears your head quite like an October day at that beach, though. I survived, and my teeth didn’t even chatter.

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