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Browsing Tag: work

This is Just a Giant Paraphrase of “Eye of the Tiger”

  On Thanksgiving I was talking with my Aunt Michelle, an avid, self-published writer, when she said something about the work that took me by surprise: writing is her way to relax. Michelle hustles like nobody’s business, but she cheerfully told me and my mom that she sees writing as her hobby, an activity she turns to as a reprieve from everyday life. She was smiling as she said it. Writing, to my aunt, is absolute joy. As for me? Well, I stood there listening to her while something like gruff shame flooded my body.Writing is her joy. Let me process that for a moment. I have never, ever approached any kind of job with a sustained feeling of joy. Yes, there was the thrill of seeing my name on a masthead when I began working for a big national law book publisher. I loved taking the train into and from the city each day (though I do remember vowing that if I were still taking that same train twenty years from now something had gone very, very wrong). I really enjoyed teaching, too, but the whole truth is that every single morning I would sit…

Boarding Now

I write this from a train somewhere between Pennsylvania and New York City. And as I write this, David is just finishing up a lunch meeting in England from an office in St. Albans (or is it Hatfield? I’m not sure. It’s a little out of my frame of reference). I just got back from a trip to Chicago and Wisconsin where I was spending time with my future sister-in-law’s lovely family. Dave will come home, repack his luggage, then take off to Baltimore for my bro’s bachelor party. When he comes back, he will repack (Orioles t-shirts don’t look quite as good worn during highfalutin work meetings, you think?), he’ll drive to Connecticut, for more work. By the time you read this, he will be home, and we will be adjusting to life as a family. And by that point, it will be 2 1/2 weeks since I got on that plane in Baltimore. And it will seem like a lifetime. I never thought we would be that family. When I was growing up, my parents were, well, home. My mom stayed at home with us until I…

Our Bank Account Wasn’t So Happy, Either

With two trips to Connecticut and a weekend out in Indiana for this past weekend’s Notre Dame-USC game (IRISH!), David had been away for the better part of two weeks. It’s good to have him home, even if it means there’s a couple extra pairs of shoes by the back door we get to trip over (he has big feet, so, you know. Big shoes). I don’t know if other parents feel like this when their spouses travel, but when he’s gone, I feel like I’m holding my breath for much of the day, just trying to keep everything–the kids, the chores, the pets, the errands–under some vague sense of control until bedtime. When he travels, by the end of the day, every cell in my body is sore–it’s the kind of tired that lets you know you’ve earned your keep on the planet that day. But it’s also the kind of tired that sometimes condones you serving the kids eggs and toast for dinner AGAIN, and possibly not showering until the day David arrives…