Back in the day when I was young and still had my health--

Let me start over.

Back in the day when I was young and stupid, I would happily work from eight to five, run home and change and then work another six hours or so. It wasn't infrequent that I would work until one in the morning. I would pull all-nighters, sometimes back to back. Was this over important projects? Sometimes. More often than not, just because I felt like it. Because I prided myself in being a workaholic. Because I thought it was fun!

My general state of being was caffeinated, slighty bloated and always a little tired. I forgot what life was like before dark circles, elastic waistlines and fresh air. I did--on occasion, sleep at my desk.

Yeah. I was a loser/idiot.

It did pay off. But I'll never be able to live up to that again.

I find myself working twelve hour days, barely able to keep my eyes open. The puffiness, caffeination and lack of sleep are all here. The tendancy to drift off in the middle of my sentances is becoming more and more common. I have started working easily rememberable and charming phrases into every conversation with every customer. Easier than trying to actually think and come up with something new. Even though I'm working hard and finially getting some affirmation, the joy just isn't there. The absolute delight I would have after finishing a ninety hour work week.

Part of it is because our family no longer places such high value on being a workaholic. Part of it is because I feel like a used tool. Part of it is because I have seen life without being a workaholic and know it's possible to work and enjoy life.

So many days where I only catch snippets of fresh air to and from my car. Glorious days like today where the only blue sky I see is through my office door and through the showroom windows--filtered twice by thick glass. It's enough to make me want to move to Wyoming and be a rancher's wife--seriously.

What I find most amusing about all of this is how weak I have become. Not physically, but towards long hours. Fifty hours a week and I am whining like a baby! Where's the love of work? The foaming desire to be the biggest, best and brightest workaholic?

Probably gone with my general desire to live long enough to see the sky be blue again.