On New Year’s Eve, I spent the day dreaming of stars, spending the night writing away, hoping to have a solid start on a fictional book for a writing competition that is due middle February. On the morning of New Year’s Day, I had a brunch appointment with someone I met from a dating web site. He chose the location. Our conversation was mostly on life and health insurance while juxtaposing the U.S with Canada’s heath care system. Seems boring, but it wasn’t.   Good conversation, nice guy, went well. 

When I returned home, I eagerly jumped back on my book, trying to work towards meeting the minimum word count requirements, which seems impossible. That night, I was overly optimistic that the first day of 2010 would be a preview of what is to come.   On Jan. 2, I decided to venture into work, traveling to DC on the trusted Amtrak. For lunch, I went to Au Bon Pain, where my first mishap began. In 2009, I solidified a reputation for eating chick noodle soup almost daily.  I would go to the self serving soup station, drain the broth from each scoop and fill my bowl with noodles, chicken, and vegetables. “Excuse me, are you going to put broth in that?” says the assistant manager.   I ignored her. When I went to pay, she was also my cashier. I responded, “Where does it say you have to put broth in your chicken noodle soup?” I continued, “Do you have to have broth?” She quickly snaps, “Yes! At the end of the night we have a large bowl full of nothing but broth and no noodles. We have to pour it out.”   I roared back, so, that’s not my problem.  

When I returned to work, I told fellow weekend co-workers. “Oh, no she didn’t. I can’t believe she said that to you.” Jennifer says with a snap and includes, “You were harassed at the self serving soup station. She was watching you get your soup. You’re a victim!”   Paul adds, “That is interesting, what about people that get all broth because they have a cold or something?” Jennifer turns and says, “We need to go down there.” All three of us, bored and now ready for battle. Jennifer, with a pen in one hand and paper in the other; Paul, excited to witness this unfolding event; and myself, thinking it is time for vindication.   For four minutes, Jennifer and I sounded like non-stop heckling wolfs and Paul standing there looking authoritative. Then, suddenly I thought, What are we doing?

Later that day, as I was going home on the train, Ann, the president of the condominium association where I live, wanted to discuss non-stop unfolding condominium developments.   “I am so sick of this. We are volunteers and we have an attorney.” I kindly replied. She responds, “I know. I am sick of this too.” Like Ann, I am an officer with the condominium association, except I am treasurer.   Ann is very dedicated to making sure SHC is managed properly.

A preview of the past: In November, a unit owner filed a complaint with the Maryland Consumer Protection division against the condominium board and filed a grievance with the Maryland Bar Association against me, personally.   I never provided legal services to the complainant or even the condominium association. The accusations seem to run rapid, but never the less, they have to be answered, especially because practicing law is how I earn a living. When someone files a complaint – no matter how incorrect or farfetched the accusations—it is like a dark cloud of stress hanging over your head, which could result in stressed behavior.   I have never had someone file a grievance against me with any bar association. This is my first, and hopefully, my only.

Sunday comes, ever so quickly, and I am still typing away, reaching 10,000 words and need 40,000 more to go.    I take a break, revisit the dating web site and find myself with a couple of new people.   I e mail one back and we continue to exchange e mails, eventually setting up a date for Thursday night. In the process of typing away, there is a break —Ann calling to discuss the condominium issues. Trying to hold two conversations at once, typing away and talking, I find myself emotionally drained. Then, after I finished with Ann, I decided to call the New Year’s Day person I met to try and schedule a second meet up. When I hung up the phone with him, I thought, “I sounded so depressed. On top of that, our conversation ended talking about dry cleaning—something I desperately needed from having piles of clothes—but he did not need to know about my slob habits—at least not yet.” (My un-cleanliness and disorganization is something I usually don’t mention. Let them find out on their own.) Thereafter, I immediately got back on condominium matters.

Monday jumps into high gear, the first day back from a long holiday break. I was tired. If people have a monthly cycle of bizarre behavior, I was starting to experience mine. Phone rings, this time it is the directors and officers insurance company representative for my condominium association. I had to allocate more time discussing this issue and research past e-mails. Frustrated by this and with the challenges of work, my mind was racing like an out-of-control workhorse determinate to get things completed while ignoring my personal wellbeing. I arrived home late that night. No rest for the worker.

II got up early the next morning only to find that the MARC train was late. And when I arrived to DC, the METRO was also late.   Later, more condominium matters needed to be addressed, more -mails needed to be sent, more responsibilities needed to be fulfilled. In the mean time, I was drained.   I called another unit owner, only to dive into speculation about what our units are worth. “David, I think the two bedroom and two baths are probably worth $200,000.” I don’t think so, I quickly replied. But did I really disagree? I purchased mine for more, was I now having to face reality that I am upside down on my mortgage?   I hit the internal panic button.   My thoughts, I can’t sell if I wanted to. I’m stuck.   

That day was also dominated by speculation that Mayor Dixon may resign if the judge did not grant a new trail.   No one had any advance notice, but the laws of financial stability would dictate. If she could keep her pension, she would probably resign. I was holding out hope, persuading myself that a new trial would be granted. I was also thinking about my track record of supporting mayors. In Orlando, I enthusiastically supported Mayor Buddy Dyer’s first successful mayoral campaign only, however, to learn months thereafter that Mayor Dyer found himself in trouble and was forced to temporarily step dow, by orders from former Gov. Jeb Bush.   In fact, a new election was planned and replacement candidates were lining up; however, with luck at Mayor Dyer’s back, he was eventually restored as mayor.   With Mayor Dixon, I was on her inauguration ball committee, in her television commercials, and pictured in her campaign flyers. Mayor Dixon also allowed me to read a poem for her at one of her events. I was very supportive of her campaign—and still am.     In my mind, a situation like Mayor Dyers would take place, in reality; the governmental structures between Maryland and Florida are extremely different and the crimes allegedly committed by Dyer and Dixon were far apart. 

Leaving work, stressed from everything, I went to catch the MARC train to Penn, only to find out the train is 45 minutes late. I quickly jumped on the Camden line, only to find myself thinking, how am I going to get home? But wait, do I want to go home? I had an idea, text the New Year’s guy and find out if he wanted to do dinner. Before I dropped him a text message, I received a telephone call about condominium issues. After, I decided to texted him; his response said something different than I read it. I was seeing blue, when the color was actually red. My response text did not make sense to his text. I noticed that later on. What was I thinking? What was I doing? Where was I going?   I was lost in a maze of confusion, finding myself event so melting away. 

So I called Paul, my roommate, and a close friend.    Later that night, I was taking to Scott, “David, you don’t seem like yourself tonight. You seemed stressed,” he said. Scott, I replied, I am stressed. First the condominium drama, now the value of my place has probably collapsed. Ok, I need something good to happen.

The next day, I received a text saying, “David, Dixon to resign. Check the news.” WHAT!, I responded. Anthony, a fellow Baltimore City Young Democrat, sent me the shocking news. I sent everyone I knew the identical text. Hoping someone would pour cold water on this hot news. However, moments later, it was all over the media. I was in disbelief, shock. I have become good friends with several of Mayor Dixon’s closet friends. I have grown fond of Mayor Dixon. What is going to happen to city employees? What is going to happen to Mayor Dixon?   

In the mean time, I received another call about condominium association business. It was like a cycle that continued. In hindsight, I allowed my extracurricular activities to hijack my life and the results are scary. The New Year’s Day guy probably thinks I am completely crazy, I can never return to Au Bon Pain, and my fictional book seems ever so far from being complete. I decided to cancel my date for Thursday night with the other guy because of my issues. I was not going to make the same mistake I made with the New Year’s Day guy. When I awoke on Friday…a new beginning.  I decided to focus more on my writings and divorce myself from politics and, hopefully, condominium business. “David First” has to be my motto from here on out. Reflecting back on the Au Bon Pain incident, I should not have returned and caused the unneeded stress on the assistant manager, because I know what it is like to be consumed with stress. We should try to work with one another—expect the unexpected—and try to understand one another.