When Is a Job Too Much of a Job?

by Robin Bonner

Migraine?
Last night, about 5:30, after about 10 hours at my desk, my head began to throb. Gary and I had planned to take Oliver, our 16-year-old cat, to the vet for his annual checkup—at least that’s what we had said that morning. By 4:00 p.m., though, my thoughts traveled more along the lines of, “I’ve got to get to the gym, or I’m going to kill myself or someone else.” Going to the vet with Gary and Oliver had warped into Gary’s dropping me off at Genesis Fitness on his way to the vet and picking me up afterward.

However, by 5:30, my thinking had changed once again: “What if I exercise with a throbbing headache? Can I, like, burst something (like an artery)? What is a brain aneurysm, anyway? Cerebral hemorrhage? Um, I don’t know exactly, but I think it could kill me…” I don’t like when I begin to think like that. And, when I do, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. So, I took remedial action right away, which in this case came in the form of three 200-mg caplets of ibuprofen and a canceled trip to the gym. Consequently, once we secured Oliver in his cat carrier, Gary went off to the vet alone.

I reached up and massaged my neck, scalp, and upper back as best I could. With eyes closed, I tried to rest for a bit, to no avail. Eventually, I headed down to the fridge and opened that bottle of Moscato that had been chilling. Ahhh! It took some time, but that and the ibuprofen eventually seemed to do the trick.

Okay, so what were we talking about? Oh, yeah: headaches. Why do we get them? Well, I knew exactly why I had that crushing, attention-getting pain.

It was because of my job.

Believe me, I’m no stranger to stress, although anyone who meets me might think I’m pretty chill. After all, my kids are out on their own—it’s just hubby and me at home. Who serves herself fruit smoothies in a red wine goblet for lunch? Who works out a couple of times a week, then bikes, sails, kayaks, rock climbs, hikes—you name it, anything to help keep the weight off and dissipate that negative energy? Who has classical music playin’ all day and cool jazz all night? You would think I’d be calm, cool, and collected.

Um, no.

It’s a façade, all a façade. I’m really a crazy lady—on some days a stark raving maniac—in disguise. You can tell by the glint in my eyes. Who thought empty nesting would come to this?

Too Much of a Good Thing
And, I know my job is the culprit. I’m an editor; editors are overachieving, anal control freaks. They want everything perfect: faster, better, cheaper—and you’d better have all three. I’ve got the job of a lifetime, a great job, a beautiful job. I’m the manager of a development department for a large publisher’s service. Okay, you can dig around and pretty quickly find out where I work; have fun with that. (From what I hear, it’s the same all over.) The promotion and raise came in January, but I had been working toward both over the last few years. And, I’ve been doing it to this day, underwhelmed with resources. My boss is awesome; however, her hands are tied. She manages a lot of people, but I keep her pretty busy with my long e-mail rants about the injustice of it all, the veiled threats, the soundless screams: Why Won’t They Give Me The Help I Need?

“We need to prove ourselves,” she says. “We need to prove we’re viable financially. We need to prove we’re worth it.” On some days I feel they have set me up for failure. How can I possibly handle it all until that mirage of a day when “proof” finally, miraculously, arrives?

If I drop dead tomorrow, they’ll see! They won’t have any department at all! Our clients will rise up, riotous! In fact, my computer is so hot from overuse that, when I myself implode, it too will self-destruct, and they won’t even find the files! Poof, just like that! If I *don’t* drop dead, though, and we continue to miss deadlines (because even working morning to night, sometimes nearly round the clock, still will not get the job done), well then what? We will lose work anyway, but because of disgruntled clients. It’s a no-win situation. Sigh. When my kids were at home, I had to walk away from it all routinely and so regained my sanity. Not so with an empty nest. And, I think they know that . . .

Dilbert is all over this kind of thing. You’ll have to go to the website, as permission to reproduce the cartoons here isn’t within our budget. If you do, search for “Do I look like I run marathons?” and “Can I buy a prayer rug?” and you’ll get my drift. In today’s publishing world, where people like me are orphans from companies gobbled up by conglomerates, a global economy means that many jobs can be and are being off-shored (only about 500 employees of my own company’s 5000 or so employees reside in the U.S.). Those of us in the industry left “onshore” feel that we have no choice but to weather the situation. That, coupled with a status of “exempt employee,” which says, basically, that you need to get the job done no matter how long it takes—without being paid overtime—makes a perfect storm for meltdowns.

So, I do my best to hang in there until management comes to its collective senses. It seems as though they cannot or will not recognize that publishers need and want our services, and if we don’t get the work, or lose it through ineptitude, someone else will get it; it’s as simple as that. I prioritize my tasks, meeting deadlines as best I can, giving guidance to my editors and getting them paid, and brainstorming ways to get new work done. But, in recent months, corporate paperwork has been inadvertently relegated to the rear. I always make an effort, but several weeks ago, even that stopped as I began to work at nights and on weekends just to meet clients’ deadlines. (And, some nights and weekends are occupied with personal stuff, believe it or not!) So, to deal with it, between things, I go to the gym. I lunch with friends. I get outside (rain or shine). I meet up with my kids. I get together with extended family and have people over for dinner (okay, not so much, as that involves doing housework). I even hired a cleaning lady. Anything to give myself a break. After all, they don’t own me.

Or, do they?

How Do You Spell Relief?
What soundtrack do you think plays in the back of my mind while I take my “breaks”? It’s the one that goes, “Shouldn’t you be working? Make those deadlines! Process those invoices! Do that billing! Go through those e-mails! If you just spend a little more time in the office, you can (catch up, keep up, fill-in-the-blank).” Margaritas help, but you can’t drink them all day long, or you wouldn’t get anything done. My job is so rigorous right now that from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., I am guaranteed to get no time for my own projects. Period. I answer e-mails and the phone all day long. “You want it when? Sure. No worries. We can handle that! Not sure how to do that? Here, let me help.” A publisher’s servant—that’s what I’ve become. And, I used to be an editor. Who has time to edit anything, anyway?

The funny thing is, I like it. I like the challenges, as well as the friendly, intelligent, and hard-working editors I work with—among freelancers, staff, and clients. My mind is fully engaged by the quirky projects that come up—figuring out how to do them, how to price them. It would be the perfect job—if there just wasn’t so damned much of it.

The fact that there is so much of it, and so little of me, will eventually become a real firestorm—not one I’m not looking forward to dealing with.

Oh, look! Here’s an e-mail from my boss. What? We can hire?! And I get admins, too? Wow!!!! I glance at the calendar; it’s not April 1, so this must be for real. Okay, I’m moving away from the ledge. Slowly, carefully. I’m back in the window, in the office, in my chair.

For now.

LINKS

Some fun reads on empty nesting and overwork (I think; I didn’t have time to read them through to the end). Enjoy!

Stages of Life: Retirement
It's never too early to think about retirement, especially while daydreaming amid piles of paper and open Word docs and Excel files. My favorite is #9.

Chicago Business: Boomer Moms…
A positive take on the empty nesting/overwork thing. Who woudda thought?

Commitment Now: Tired? Overworked? Stressed?
Not that she’s even an empty nester, but what planet does this woman live on?

SelfGrowth.com: Overworked?...
Right on target. I could have written this, except that I’m living it.