Comes great paychecks.
OK, so it's a bastardization of an immortalized phrase, but you get my point.
I got a call from Napolean tonight at 5:30 p.m. I was one foot out the door to yoga. I answered it. I. Am. Dumb.
I mentioned to Napolean that I was on my way out to yoga. The unspoken suggestion to "make it fast."
To which he responded that he was, in fact, technically "on holiday." (He likes to use the Anglo-Irish terminology. Makes him feel special, I suppose.) As if to suggest that this was a special phonecall - him taking time out to reprimand me or bolster me or whatever he thought in his mind that he was doing. That because he was working on holiday, I should be working after hours too.
But the reality is, he has the corner office. He has the title. And the responsibility. And, I dare say, the paycheck.
Of course, one should not work hard solely for the paycheck. One should work for the peace of mind, the self-worth, the esteem. But the paycheck doesn't hurt.
I do work hard. And I do take work seriously. But it's not my life and it's not my sole purpose for being.
And so I'm going to have to work long and hard at it, but I will not feel guilty for going to yoga tonight.