In the past, when my ex-bosses attempted to interfere with my perfect, well-laid marketing plans, making whimsical changes in media plans, creative briefs or activation ideas, I called it micro-managing.
When they attempted to re-engineer the structure of my team, decided how I rated them, or prevented me from firing non-contributors to the business, I called it micro-managing.
At home, there were times I thought the hubby's weekend stubble grown in the attempt to emulate the Hollywood brat pack of sexy bad boys made him look like a scruffy, down and out vagrant, smoking his weed while seated on a cardboard at a street corner with his faithful dog. When I asked him to shave it off if he wanted to be seen with me in public, he called it micro-managing.
When I had one of those nurturing chats with Joel in an attempt to find out who he was dating, what he was dating and when...you know, so I could share my rich experiences of my younger days spent in the company of some girlfriends I was acquainted with who were money-grubbing, sex-starved, manipulative lasses weaving their boyfriends around their snarly fingers. I just wanted to make him aware of the dangers of puppy love but he called it micro-managing.
When I visited Dad and Mom over the weekend and realized that all Dad had for lunch was a pack of peanuts due to lack of appetite, I would go on a tirade against Mom for starving my beloved father. I felt like the senior matron of a nursing home berating the junior nursing interns for misplacing a walking frame. Mom dismissed my melodramatic display of piety and called it micro-managing...then turned her attention back to the pretty flowers on the mahjong tiles in front of her.
When the maid attempted my granny's recipe of Peranakan Chicken Curry, I would totter about in the kitchen giving her tips on how to get a more robust flavor from the hand-blended curry paste with the use of candlenuts. I sensed her displeasure at my presence in HER kitchen, demonstrated by her moody demeanor and the cacophony of noises she created in the orchestral pit of a kitchen sink as she washed the crockery and utensils. She called my well-intended culinary advice micro-managing.
When I attempted to adjust Bailey's collar just now to tighten it, the bloody mutt walked away! Did it think I was micro-managing too?!
I do know a thing or two about micro-management. And like most creative people, I do dislike being on the receiving end of it. I hope those who were on the receiving end of my micro-managing ways could forgive me for lending passion into everything I do although one might deem my actions as micro-managing. And yes, please be honest by telling me when I do push the boundaries of micro-management.
