A short time ago I was dating a guy who informed me that in his opinion, I am a workaholic. This was far from his biggest complaint about me, but it was clearly an issue all the same, and when we broke up, it was one of the things I mentioned when I was complaining about him to my friends.
“And he said — get this — HE SAID I WAS A WORKAHOLIC.”
My friends were sympathetic, because they love me and because they all work sixty hours a week themselves. So really, who are they to throw stones? But it does occur to me, in looking over the past week or so, that my ex-boyfriend might’ve had a point. I worked most of the weekend, and nearly every night once I got home, plus a full day at my office. This is the kind of craziness that caused the Japanese to jump out of office buildings in Tokyo in the eighties.
The real secret is that I like working. I like it so much, I don’t even take lunch at my office. I’m happier when I have lots to do, and I need a great deal of structure, otherwise I feel insane. I like lists. I like notecards. I like highlighters. I have an office supply fetish. Staples is my adult entertainment center. It may be sad, but hey. I could argue that the secret of a happy life is figuring out who you are, exactly, and then behaving like yourself as much as possible, without hurting anyone. I am a neurotic workaholic freak. And so I will behave as such.