As I’m snuggling under the covers, I’ve decided to sleep on my hubby’s side of the bed. I can smell him on his pillow and it makes me happy. I look over at the clock, the red numbers creating a soft glow in the darkness. I count out the seven-hour difference on my fingers. A flood of memories washes over me. I used to know what time it was in London without even thinking, my brain automatically converting the numbers.
Memories from a former life become so vivid. I haven’t thought of those days in years. My husband’s trip to London has triggered them. In a former life, I was the executive assistant to a rather powerful man who worked in a rather prominent company. At first, his responsibilities were stateside, but he was promoted and his duties became global. Trips to London and other far-off places were commonplace.
The trips to London were more frequent, and I used to know the flight numbers and times to and from London by heart. I used to know who to contact at the drop of a hat to get excellent service at a certain hotel in London. I used to keep things together here while he traveled abroad. I used to know what time it was in London just by looking at the clock.
My duties for this man would have been overwhelming to some, but I could handle it. I didn’t think it was possible to work for someone who was just as picky as I was. We were the perfect match. I could anticipate what he was going to ask before he asked it, and he was impressed with my attention to such details.
When he was stateside, my life was easier. He was demanding but appreciative. It’s when he was seven hours away that my life became exponentially more difficult. He would never hesitate to page me for things, not giving one thought to the fact that I would be in bed or that it would be the middle of the night. But, in a global economy, things happen when they happen.
On more than one occasion, I would hear my pager vibrating on my bedside table at 3am. I would flip open the little device that looked like a little laptop and furiously type with my thumbs on the tiny keys. I was the fastest thumb-typist this side of the Mississippi…never mind the fact that I had all of the access codes and teleconference phone numbers memorized. I would squint at the screen with one eye, checking my work and press ‘send.’ For being so picky and needing things just so, my boss sure was forgetful. Why bother printing out his calendar and syncing his Palm Pilot if he’s just going to page me at such brutal hours? My hubby would mumble something in his sleep, and I would tell him not to worry. It was just my boss. Again. I’d handled the situation. Again.
Outsiders told me I was being abused by a tyrant. They didn’t see the softer side of him. Yes, he was challenging at times, but he was powerful, and when you’re the right hand of a very powerful man, it’s intoxicating. I made calls and people did things without question. I told people to jump, and they did so immediately, without even stopping to ask how high.
It wasn’t until I tried to leave him that things took a sour turn. He had groomed me for a project management role, allowed me to get extra schooling, and encouraged me to interview for another position within the company. I was offered the job and accepted, but in the end, he refused to let me go. His powerful position outranked my dreams and the desires of my future boss, and I was trapped.
I was devastated, and the respect I’d had for him vanished. It was soon after that that I plotted my escape, and another chapter of my life began. But, this isn’t about that, and I’m trying to push all the memories back into the box under my bed. I don’t have time to deal with all of those now. I’m free from all of that, and my life is so much better now. This isn’t about that. This isn’t about then. This is about how I used to know what time it was in London just by looking at the clock, and now, I snuggle under the blankets counting out the hours on my fingers.
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The Casual Perfectionist
writes here.
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