Workaholic Woes

More than one person has accused me that I’m a workaholic. And I say, “Guilty as charged.”

I’ve spent countless extra-work hours in the office—after 5:30, a couple of hours before midnight, on weekends, and I’m ashamed to admit, a few times past midnight on weekdays. There was even an instance when I, with several of my officemates, was working on a catalogue. We worked non-stop till around 5am the next day (kept awake and functional by laughter, food and the threat of a baby doll that looked like the monster doll Chuckie). While three members of the work-vigil team went home to rest and take the morning off, I with two other girls managed to sleep for three hours in the conference room and then report for another day of work at 8am after a joltingly cold shower. Crazy is what others would call that kind of set-up. I call it unusual and once-in-a-lifetime. You know, how Halley’s comet would blaze through the sky once every seven decades.

Last Friday, I almost went home with a stack of pages to edit during the weekend. Afraid that I would soon be cramming to make it to my deadline, I initially thought that the best way to avoid the impending rush-rush scenario is to sacrifice a part of my rest time to breathe a little easier the week after.

Then I decided. No. I will break the cycle, and change my attitude.

My life does not have to be dictated by the to-do list on my desk. It might be a big boost to the ego to feel indispensable and important, but I don’t need to feel that kind of importance when I’m at home—resting, playing with my nephews, cleaning my room, or when I’m at church—teaching kids in my Sunday School class. For two days in a week, I can be simply me, with no business card to flash, and no need to prove anything about myself and flaunt skills I have, or think I have.

And so, before clocking out of work to welcome the weekend, I do something else instead. I map out my upcoming week and pencil in goals—finish X number of pages in a day— which I vow to accomplish, come hell or high water (or in Manila’s case, come Meralco brown-out or Milenyo). Feeling my week-long plan realistic enough, I make a mental note to be doubly diligent with my work and be extra-cunning about how I use my time. With my self-imposed load out of my backpack, I go home a little lighter—in more ways than one.

Tomorrow’s a Monday. I promise to do my best to deliver work that is pleasing to God and guard against being swallowed alive by my desk.

“Yes, I am a workaholic.” But that will soon be, “I was a workaholic.”

Will that change even be possible?

Of course. I'll be working on it.