17 DAYS UNTIL REDCARPET EVENT
“Why would I order aricesculpture? I didn’t even know this is something that existed,” I plead into the phone as I stare at a very detailed New York skyline sample sculpture that’s outside of my office at Sparks Headquarters.
It’s massive.
It’s kind of blocking my door.
It’s entirely made of rice.
It’s mocking the lunch I skipped to accept the delivery.
The person on the phone finds my order, confirms it is supposed to be ice, and is trying to figure out what happened and how to get me a new sculpture to approve.
Colleagues snicker and cover their mouths when they see what I’m dealing with. I don’t have the energy to hide my irritation and try to be positive since I’m rarely in the office and don’t want to give anyone the wrong impression. The last of my patience and understanding just floated away the moment I realized another mistake had been made.
The last few days have been brutal. Wrong. Unpredictable. For someone who attempts to account for the expected, and any single thing that could go amiss, these days have been my nightmare.
In theory, the event is planned and we’re getting to the end, but when it comes to execution, anything that could possibly come up has. Rice sculptures instead of ice sculptures, double invites being sent to some guests while others haven’t received a single one, and the venue getting the time wrong for the event which led to a double booking.
A project that was once ahead of schedule yesterday is now drastically behind. I also am trying to build up the poor social media intern who just bursts into tears every time she sees me—per her explanation, she struggles with authority. She thrives on being perfect, giving me things before I ask for them, and knowing the answers. It's like she's a younger version of myself, but let's be real, I'm still an emotional human. I don't see that changing, ever, because no matter how much therapy I do or meds I take, I still cry about everything.
I’m afraid to move the cart it’s set on, so I suck in my stomach and attempt to slink into my office. I drop my phone and try to catch it, which has me taking out the end of the sculpture. Rice is everywhere. My phone is drowning in rice.
The breath I sigh out in crippling defeat is hard to get back. My lungs are tight—there’s no room for air. Pins, needles, and invisible knives dance on the top of my skin. The wave is expected but it’s still somehow surprising. The anxiety and panic is hot. Unrelenting—like a bully you can’t outrun.
I grab my phone from the smashed rice—cringing at that sensory experience—move the cart, and close my door. Grains of rice litter my floor and into the hallway.
As the door clicks, there’s a light knock on the door.
“I need a minute,” I scratch out, trying to keep it together.
“This is kind of an emergency.” The small voice from Olivia, our very young social media intern, is barely audible.
She’s young. She’s standing in rice. She needs help. Your meltdown can wait.
I open the door, gathering myself as much as I can. “What’s up?” I ask.
Looks like I’m not the only one having a meltdown—tears run down Olivia’s face. Immediately, I put my hand on her shoulder and try to catch her eyes but she stares down at the phone in her hand.
“Olivia, it can’t be that bad. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She snaps up, pressing her lips together, eyes wide going back and forth from me to the phone.
“You know how we spent an entire week filming, editing, loading, and getting social media posts ready for the entire duration of the lead up to the event? And we scheduled each post for a specific date and time, by channel?”
Of course I do. I’ll never forget that week for as long as I live. The idea was good, in theory, but it was definitely an over commitment. But, Olivia and I worked together, far too many hours of overtime and take out Thai food, to get everything done.
“Yes,” I answer, nervous for what’s about to come next.
“Well, I don’t know what happened, or how it happened, but all the posts just posted, to all channels. Every single piece of content in a single day.” She shows me her phone, and I scroll the feed of our event account, which indeed has a flood of content.
Fuck me.
“We need to delete them but that means—"
“We’ll lose all theedits,” we say in tandem.
The freaking algorithm. All of the social media channels are at each other’s throats, vying for everyone’s attention and focus. If you don’t edit your content, in that specific app for posting, it basically gets buried and no one will see it. Olivia and I decided we wouldn’t use video or graphic design software, but that we’d edit each one in each app.
