I was going to write about “why you hate work,” a much shared NY Times article about how post-recessionary downsizing and “always on” technology conspire to make American employees feel anxious on a Sunday morning about the workweek to come, even while they’re still in their jammies reading about why they’re anxious about the workweek to come.
I like my job. A lot. But I still feel a vague unease about returning to Monday’s onslaught of Replicon approvals (don’t ask), meeting invitations (never has the word “invitation” been so euphemistically used) and “touch bases,” “check ins,” and other super casual ways others have of assessing your progress. The deadline is EOD, no COB, no can we have a peek at 3 or 2 or 1? Are we aligned? Can we find another editor/designer/warm body to work on it? All of which means: why aren’t you done yet?
So now I’m complaining (victim much?) but the real problem is a self-imposed sense of obligation. I can’t stand to have a library book overdue, let alone a deadline blown or a payment missed. I also feel obliged to do something about the arugula rotting in the fridge (“I should eat that”) and the clothes left in the dryer overnight, settling into unsmoothable wrinkles while I sleep.
Or don’t sleep, worrying about salad greens and rumpled sheets and my career and the house we just bought.
I am “much obliged,” a nicety that I think means “thank you.” But the curse or cross it imposes — I allow it to impose — results in my rising from my bed at 4 to blog, but not before pulling all that laundry out of the dryer. Next up: I’ll prepare a breakfast salad, if only to use up that arugula.