by Shari Dinkins
I ONCE SAW this notice in the San Francisco Chronicle: Workaholics Anonymous meeting. Tuesday, 8:00 pm. Church at 16th and Church Street. We understand if you can’t make it.
I laughed; then I felt a small tightness in my belly. Workaholic. That’s me. And I did not go. Later I sent for some information from the organization. I received it four months later. I wondered if a workaholic, like me, just couldn’t find time to get the thin, blue tri-fold and the two stapled white sheets into a #10 envelope, address it and send it to me.
Yes, above many things, I choose work. Yes, I have read books. I have seen therapists. I have prayed for answers. And the fact is that I work too much.
As an adjunct, this defect suits me perfectly. The fact that I can teach two intensive courses during the summer not only ensures me rent money, but also gives my department what they need-a competent, confident instructor who will show up under any circumstance with papers graded, assignments ready and a worn leather attaché under my arm.
Yes, I have gone to class sick, many times with one eye
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