live week, dead day
Oct. 10th, 2003 12:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
progToday was a wash, but at least it came amidst a lively and productive week. A poor judgement call resulted in me settling into my cube at 2 p.m., and I have known for years that this is not a valid starting time for me, not for any flavor of working day in any place. To my credit I did get some stuff done, but was well and truly out of steam about four hours later. Have spent the rest of the day reading. Blah.
Monday through Wednesday, I have managed to get up around 8 and get started with work (either at Longwood or at home) before 10. In the groove by noon, have the day's goals wrapped up before 6, and then I have the whole evening to myself and feeling good until beddy-byes 'round midnight. In other words, a perfectly reasonable working day, by most anyone's book.
The thing is, for a long time -- maybe since my Hermon job -- I told myself at some level that I could divorce my own working hours from the rest of the world's, shifting them forward or backwards, or breaking them into chunks, or spreading them thin throughout the whole day; my time's all fungible, right? And only lately have I begun to admit that this isn't the case, and that perhaps it never was. Days that see me finishing up around sunset, still feeling peppy and hungry for dinner, never fail to feel longer and fuller than days where I gradually roll into work at whenever o'clock and then fade back home some hours later when my energy finally peters out, long after dark.
Later, I can speculate as to the reasons for this; my first task is to stop pretending it isn't true. And, uh, that means I oughtta hit the hay now, eh? Hm.
Monday through Wednesday, I have managed to get up around 8 and get started with work (either at Longwood or at home) before 10. In the groove by noon, have the day's goals wrapped up before 6, and then I have the whole evening to myself and feeling good until beddy-byes 'round midnight. In other words, a perfectly reasonable working day, by most anyone's book.
The thing is, for a long time -- maybe since my Hermon job -- I told myself at some level that I could divorce my own working hours from the rest of the world's, shifting them forward or backwards, or breaking them into chunks, or spreading them thin throughout the whole day; my time's all fungible, right? And only lately have I begun to admit that this isn't the case, and that perhaps it never was. Days that see me finishing up around sunset, still feeling peppy and hungry for dinner, never fail to feel longer and fuller than days where I gradually roll into work at whenever o'clock and then fade back home some hours later when my energy finally peters out, long after dark.
Later, I can speculate as to the reasons for this; my first task is to stop pretending it isn't true. And, uh, that means I oughtta hit the hay now, eh? Hm.