Growing up, my parents had very few rules for me. I was allowed to do almost anything. I was allowed to cuss. I was allowed to drink underage. I was allowed to wander off unattended down miles of railroad track, and I was allowed to stay out late with boys.
(Not that there were ever any boys. I was usually too busy wandering unattended down the railroad track.)
But I wasn't allowed to lie. I wasn't allowed to gossip about people. And I wasn't allowed to be lazy. Those were the three enforceable rules of our home, and I've carried them into our household today.
I got to thinking the other day about how my family prized being hard-working. Dad used to say he loved sitting down at the end of the day, knowing he had put in a hard day's work. And I agree: a beer doesn't taste as good if you haven't worked up a sweat and earned it.
Now I've worked harder than I've ever worked this year. Between fighting for the restaurant, my music career, and my kids' education, you would think that I might feel like I've earned the damn beer. But something terrible has happened.
The proverbial beer doesn't even sound good. I'm craving work. And now I think I've become a full-blown work-a-holic.
Reader, even though being hard-working is good, there's a balance, and I'm not nailing it. Too much is too much. We have to know when to punch out at the end of the day. As we all head into the holidays, let's be sure we're striving for balance. I'm going to spend the final weeks of 2020 resolving to seek more equanimity in 2021. It might not happen, but it's something to shoot for.
And I'm starting right now by putting aside my computer and enjoying my kids. I'll see you next Monday. -Em