If I could change one thing about the last few decades of my life it’s this: I’d try to have less work-life balance. Work-life balance is, after all, just the booby prize God gives to people who are failing.
Here are some signs that let me know I’m not working hard enough: I’m savouring my food. I’m enjoying a book. I’m being delighted by the smile of a child. My heart rate is steady. I’m not cry-typing.
I usually catch myself at these moments. “Jesus,” I think. “How am I going die prematurely at my desk on a Sunday only to be found in the morning by the cleaning staff, in these circumstances?”
Luckily I’ve a good handle on these signs now. If I’m chewing my food slowly at a table and not galumphing it down in a petrol station forecourt before cry-driving to an assignment, then I know I’m in danger of underwork. If I’m gazing tenderly at the faces of my family and friends and feeling a true sense of human connection and companionship, then I know I’ve dallied too long. If old dogs and children are drawn to me and not frightened by my frenzied patter, then I know I’m being little more than a shiftless bum.
I’m vigilant about the dangers. Sometimes of an evening I find myself workless and perhaps momentarily mindful. Oh no, I’m living in the moment, I think in disgust, as a summer breeze soothes my brow, and there and then I vow to work harder, not smarter.
