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and walking off the stage and out of the building but can’t summon the strength.
    Instead, I do what I always do. I step up.
    Taking off my suit jacket, I drape it carefully over the stool beside the lectern. Although NTA is slow to embrace new strategies, there’s been a recent movement in the company to warm up our management style. At a leadership session last week, the trainers used terms like “hands-on” and “team-building” while urging us to be more accessible to staff. It’s like learning a whole new language.
    “Welcome to the Integrated Service Project,” I begin. “I’m Ellis Hudson, your Project Director. You’ve been hand-picked for this project because you’ve got the skills, the energy and the personality for a challenge. There’s a lot of hard work ahead in turning the Canadian postal service into the best system in the world. I’m going to drive you hard, but I also want to bring out the best in each and every one of you. By the time the project ends, our group will be operating like a well-oiled machine. So, let’s give a big cheer for the Integrated Service Project Team.”
    Leaving the stage amid a rousing cheer, I look over at the partners, who are gathered in a clump of gray suits and somber ties. NTA introduced a casual dress policy months ago, but it will never take with the partners because the uniform is as effective as bug repellent at keeping the junior consultants at bay. I haven’t embraced the policy myself. My suit is my armor.
     Instead of joining them, I head to the open bar and follow Reuben’s advice by ordering a dirty martini. I’ve only had a couple of sips when he comes up behind me. “Good job, Hudson. I know you’ll want to take this opportunity to bond with your team. The sooner we get out of your way and leave you to it, the better. We’re heading to Lloyd’s Steak House.”
    My jaw drops. It’s just more evidence of their contempt for me. The partners always stay a couple of hours at a launch party. It’s the least they can do, when it’s the biggest gig we have. They must be in a hurry to ply Peets with Scotch and stogies.
    I mutter goodbye into my martini, and Reuben disappears into the crowd.
     
Seagull Manager:  An executive who flies in, poops over everything and leaves.
 
    “Your speech was great, ma’am,” says one rookie, sidling up beside me. He’s well-groomed, cute and earnest. In other words, standard issue.
    I check his nametag. “Thanks, Dylan.” He’s probably just completed courses on relationship management and wants to practice on me. “You can call me Ellis.”
    “Okay. Well, listen, Ellis, I’m on the party planning crew and I have a favor to ask.”
    “Shoot.”
     “We’ve rented a karaoke machine and it would mean a lot to us if you’d do a number.”
    I nearly choke on my martini. That’s taking accessibility way too far. “Karaoke? Uh, no. I’m not much of a performer.”
    “Are you kidding? You were inspiring up there.”
    The kid’s head is so far up my butt it’s indecent. “There’s a big difference between speaking and singing.”
    Dylan hands me a shooter glass. “Try one of these. It’s the special project shooter we invented.”
    The shooter is layered and smells delectable. Tilting my head back, I pour it down my throat. “Yum. What’s in it?”
    “Raspberry schnapps, Grand Marnier and crème de cacao. We call it the ‘Go-Postal.’”  He slides another one towards me. “I heard about you during training.”
    I swallow the second Go-Postal. “Really?”
    “Yeah, they said you were the best project lead in Canada and that we’d be lucky to work with you.”
    “Huh.”  So, I’ve become a module on the basic training. That’s what happens when you’re the oldest living project lead, with one precisely-knotted exception.
     
Midlife crisis:  a period of emotional turmoil in middle age characterized especially by a strong desire for change.
     
    “I couldn’t wait to meet you,”