It was a disappointing weekend. I came off a triumph at the end of the week of knocking a story assignment out of the park and impressing one of the PM editors, and felt like a little celebrating. However, I still don't know that many people in the City, and those that I do know didn't seem to be around or going out. So I spent a lot of time by myself, wishing I were out galavanting, which is a terrible feeling. Yesterday I was being nagged to clean up more around the apartment, and I suddenly had an interesting realization: I would rather be at work. It was Sunday evening, and I couldn't wait for it to be Monday.
There are those people who are workaholics because they're compulsively trying to get ahead, and I have something in common with those people. There are those who are are work all the time, and think about work all the time, because they can't possibly get everything done in regular hours, but this doesn't really describe my situation.
Rather, I like being at work because I'm good at it. Compare that to my current personal life, where I'm trying to meet more people but still have a very small friend/acquaintance base my age, and I'm a total success. At work I can phone up anybody and tell them I'm from PM and have a nice chat; off work I'm just somebody who drinks more than he should and wishes he had more people to go out with. I have to be honest with you here--I'm not that put off by the idea of becoming a workaholic, and longs as it leads somewhere. But I acknowledge on the surface that the idea is somewhat troubling, like my roommates are training for someday having a nagging wife that I don't want to go home to.
I kid, of course. They're good kids. And it feels to leave every night.