I went back to my office yesterday after an extra-long weekend spent with my visiting father. The weather was beautiful during my time off, and we had a really nice visit. We also did quite a bit of work; my dad, god love him, wants to be helpful, and I can use the help. Now that I have my house to myself again and am settling once more into my daily routine, I’m back with my nose to the grindstone at the office, not the one at home.
When I got divorced, I was freelancing. I used to joke that I went back to work at an office because I got tired of gossiping about myself. There’s something reassuring about being part of a group, whether or not the individuals in it fit together well. I tend to be a loner, so being forced to be with lots of other people five days a week is a good thing.
Colleagues are like family: you don’t get to choose them. I have colleagues I love and those I could definitely live without, but they are all a part of my daily life, and we have to learn to get along with each other. And so, for the most part, we do.
The work itself is plentiful and varied, often challenging, and sometimes it feels important. Other times, it seems peripheral and repetitive, like I’m entertaining on the sidelines while the real work is being done out on the field. I work to live; I regret that I’ve never had a job that I loved so much that it was a calling, not a job. I want, and need, to be occupied, and there are many fine things to be said about full employment. I’m grateful to have a good job.
Still, many days I long to have time for long walks, leisurely breakfasts and lunch with friends. To spend a weekend relaxing rather than racing through my to-do list before Monday rolls around again. To have time to relax and do productive work, to tackle home projects, earn a living and still have time – and money – to travel.
Until I figure out how, you can reach me at the office.