It's been a long week. When I went back to work after a short hiatus, I went with a conviction that I would work a normal, 7 hour work day (9 to 5 minus an hour lunch). Well, two hours into my first day back I could see that doing such a thing would be far more stressful than just working a bit extra each day, getting a little more done, and having less to come into each morning. So I (mentally) capped it at 9 hours - of actual work, that is.
Well, I've mostly stuck to that. It's largely been without a lunch of any sort, which is fine with me because my appetite has been funny, and Midtown Manhattan is the most boring place ever anyway. Plus it makes the day shorter overall. Friday was a ten hour day - just wanted to wrap things up so I could not worry about them over the weekend, you know?
The main problem with working this way is that it takes such a bite from my life. I get home at six, seven, eight with nothing left. But I still have to deal with the aches and pains of the day, with figuring out what to do for dinner, with the rest of, well, life. And still, the temptation is there - because I'm an effing workaholic - to work even more.
So I have to keep reminding myself that it's a marathon, not a sprint. I actually can't get to the end of it. I could work 12 hours a day for a month, and I sure would land myself in bed for a week, but I wouldn't get to the bottom of the pile on my desk. Because there is no bottom. It's an endless stream. Like dust - no matter what I do there will always be more.
I don't know why this is such a hard thing for me to absorb. I know I'm not alone - many of us have this disease of "it must be done NOW!" And we would all do well to get the hell over it. Anyone who wants to tell me that my 45 hour work week isn't good enough can bite me. I produce plenty of work product in 45 hours, and I'm quite good at my job: these are the facts I must remember.
Still. Am I working this weekend? Yes, yes I am. But from home, and only a little...