American Idle II

First, a confession. I practice a profession whose members sell their time by the hour. No, not that profession, but close. I'm a lawyer. So I know a bit about workaholism. I've never suffered from it, as any of my supervisors, past or present, would readily confirm. But I have observed it at close range.

It's not pretty.

In the law -- and I suspect in other occupations as well -- there's a sort of perverse competition over who can work the most hours without dropping dead of an aneurysm. It's often a matter of pride to stumble around the hallowed halls of a law firm, eyes bleary, hair askew, coffee in hand, muttering about how you've billed 150 hours already this month and its only the 15th. And that's on a Saturday.

It's quite a spectacle, really -- sort of a martyr's sweepstakes, if you will.

This happens to some extent even at the firms who bill themselves as "lifestyle" firms. At those shops, the martyrs are sometimes admired, sometimes scorned, but always paid very well. Money, it seems, is the prize for the winner of the Hours Marathon -- that and a hearty pat on the back. Congratulations, pal. You have single-mindedly worked to death any life you ever had beyond the office. That's certainly a triumph.

Ultimately, that's the difference between the true-blue work addict and someone who works hard enough to get the job done well and then goes home -- the superiority complex. The addicts trumpet their ability to utterly beat the shit out of themselves. For them, robotic stamina is a badge of honor. There also seems to be an element of fear; if they stop, will they ever be able to start again? And if they stop, they might feel something. Can't have that.

For my part, I'll say thanks, but no thanks. I will do my work well, and I'll do enough of it to live, and no more. There are trails to be hiked, mountains to be climbed, reefs to be explored, dogs to be petted, kids to be cuddled, lovers to be entwined with. This is my to-do list. I need to get to work on it.