Confession. I work too much.

"Color Work Station" by Megan Whitmarsh at 20x200

Confession. I'm imagining myself in a tiny Real World confession room with that loud girl (Melissa?) who had braces from New Orleans, which I watched religiously for that entire season in 2001 and after that, never again.

I work too much. 

I even create fake work so that I can be working.

I rarely (lately, never) just sit around at night and read a book or watch tv. Sometimes John convinces me to watch Downton or Homeland or something, but I'm even getting bad at that. 

This got me into trouble once when I took a job and found myself in a hostile work environment, and I failed to set boundaries when I started. Sure, I'll check my email in the middle of the night! Sure, you can yell at me if I don't answer my phone on Sunday morning after my 90 hour work week.

After that, I got a lovely job where people are treated like human beings and my time is respected. Instead of taking it easy, though, and reading more books or finding new hobbies, I sat at my computer in the evenings and worked on our wedding. Granted, I did do all the planning and designing myself which saved some money, and I did spend an unnecessary amount of time researching each decision before I made it. That lasted for almost a year.

Once we were happily married, I took a few blissful summer months to truly relax. Wow, that was nice. I don't really even remember what I did, except for walking with John to the deserted baseball field and letting Herbie run himself silly. 

At the end of summer, I took a second job. I also decided to be more devoted to my blog. For future kids! For our moms! For the world! I don't know why, actually, except that I wanted to be writing. So now, on most days, I work all day and all night.

I want to be a laid back person, shoulders relaxed, who gets lost in a book and gets nothing done after work for three days straight. Or maybe. even. four. 

John told me recently that I'm too focused on the next thing (and making it perfect) that I fail to enjoy the process. That probably sounds like it was a fight, but it wasn't. He was being my cheerleader and helping me take a step, and he was right. {Interestingly, he tends to enjoy the process too much, whatever that means.}

How do you know when to stop working and to start living? I don't know, but Thanksgiving Break should help.