Discomfort zone

Get outside your comfort zone, the boss tells me.

Know what’s waiting for you outside your comfort zone?

A minefield of humiliation and embarrassment.

I know, I’ve got the bruises to prove it.

A comfort zone is what comes naturally to you, what you’re familiar with. For me, writing stories for newspapers and magazines was my career comfort zone. Go some place, look around, ask some questions, write the story.

But then one day I had the bright idea of becoming editor of this magazine, thus leaving the womb-like safety of my comfort zone.

What no one told me was this: You can drown quick outside your comfort zone.

For about the first year I got by with my existing systems, treading water like a frantic puppy, always one gasp from sinking like a rock. But after one too many times telling the publisher, “Meeting? Of course I remembered we have a meeting!” I realized I needed something.

What I needed was an organizer.

I’d survived perfectly well for two decades without one, relying on one of those giant desktop calendars that lets you see a month at a time. Trouble was my desk was always piled high with notebooks, documents and books, so I only ever saw it quarterly.

Midway through my first year as editor I went organizer shopping, choosing one that lets you carve your day into 15-minute increments. Gonzo organizing!

The new me showed up for work ready to plan. “Wow,” colleagues teased. “Getting all organized, huh?” I was penciling in meetings, scheduling appointments and noting commitments three months out.

Then it happened: the discrepancy.

“Did you say Monday the 9th?” I asked incredulously. “I’ve got Monday the 10th. How can that be?”

Here’s how: I was using next year’s organizer. In the alien terrain outside my zone it took me three weeks to realize it.

I’ve learned a lot since that foolish moment, but just when I thought I’d expanded my zone of comfort I stepped on another mine.

I recently learned a pair of my colleagues shared the same birthday, so I decided to treat them to a cake (our whole newsroom would happily subsist on cake if not for fear of developing scurvy).

I gathered the troops and led the cheers when the birthday girls walked in: “Happy Birthday! Surprise!”

First to speak was Rebecca, smiling politely. “So, who’s this for?”

So modest, I thought. “You!”

She glanced quizzically at the other birthday girl. Penny’s face was blank, although with a faint “Guess I’ll eat some cake” smile.

“It’s for both of you!” I blurted, my head darting back and forth between them in growing alarm. You could have sliced the silence with a cake knife.

“The date’s listed in the office directory!” I implored, checking my watch to confirm it. Yup, the 27th.

“That’s right,” Rebecca agreed, “The 27th. Which is Friday.”

Penny nodded in agreement.

My watch’s date was two days ahead. For a whole month I’d been walking around believing it to be two days later than it was. I wrote bogus checks, I logged dates incorrectly, and along the way I’m sure I surprised people with my inexplicable punctuality.

So like I was saying, it’s no game outside your comfort zone. It’s a humiliating …

Wait! I didn’t just share all that in a magazine column, did I?