"What's it feel like to get thrown in over your head?" someone asked me a couple weeks ago.
"Normal," I said.
This is my 12th newspaper and 12th city, making me a critter of change over 30 years.
So much so I often feel uncomfortable with comfort and anxious about a lack of anxiety.
Yet normalcy creeps in.
I've long said the average learning curve in a newsroom is at least one year. I've sometimes extended that to five years in top jobs in bigger operations.
After just two months, though, I find myself offering advice to seasoned professionals. I can help figure out the copy machine. Today, I tracked down our fax number. (Note: Who the hell faxes anything anymore?)
I know where to go for the least expensive gas, the best fresh produce, the most inclusive relish tray.
The streets and their turns are more familiar. Folks stop me in parking lots and thank me for taking the job and keeping the newspaper joint open and thriving.
I've spent the better part of a decade occasionally waking up and wondering where the hell I was. I still do that but given this will be my retirement city, I hope it happens less.
Peace and normalcy unto all of you my brothers and sisters.
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