. . .or more like 8 to 5, lunch optional. Or 7:30 to 5. Or 7 to 5. Or 7 to 6. And sometimes weekends.
I took the day off work yesterday. A scheduled vacation day. I needed “me time”. We had friends in town all weekend, I had a long week at work last week, and I just needed a day to decompress and unwind. My idea of unwinding was to finish painting the foyer, stairwell, and upstairs hallway. Oh, and pay bills. Exciting . . I know.
I loved it. I loved every minute of it. But during my breaks and while I was making dinner, I caught myself checking my work email remotely. Why? Why do I torture myself this way? I have what I consider to be a “job”, not a “career”–even though I’ve been working for the same company for almost 11 years. I don’t hate my job, but I also don’t jump out of bed each weekday morning in anticipation of what lies ahead. There are no lives or livelihoods (except for Mike’s and my FINANCIAL livelihood!) at stake–I am not a doctor, nurse, surgeon, etc. But for some reason I’m dedicated–more than I should be. I am in an industry where women do not just climb right up the corporate ladder; I’m a woman in a man’s world. I can do my job, and I can do it well–exceedingly well–but I feel my skull bumping right up against the glass ceiling. And I just accept it. And continue to check my work email from home. On a vacation day that I NEEDED to take from being so burned out.
This blogging stuff is addictive. I feel like I just vented to a friend and now can get back to my day. Love it! I should have entitled my blog “My Own Personal Bitch Session.”