One day, at a farewell Champagne-and-strawberries party for one of my co-workers, I was pulled aside by my supervisor --a man with a full life outside the office--who was concerned that I was working too many weekends. I was literally working for nothing, for this was a company without provisions for overtime or comp days. He could tell that I was besotted: He recognized the danger signs.

"Remember," he said,
"you can love a job,
but a job can't love you."
But he was too late. The office had become my home. My colleagues had become my family (and thus I forgave them anything). After all, this was the mid-1980's, when working too hard or too much was considered an oxymoron. You weren't supposed to stop and smell the roses; you were just supposed to earn enough so you could order them by phone whenever you wanted.

My life revolved around the office. I went on vacations with colleagues. I ate dinner with them on weekends even when we weren't working. I found it hard to be with people who weren't my co-workers.

My sense of humor was now based on inside jokes. All my stories seemed to require the disclaimer "I guess you had to be there." There, of course, was the office. My love was matched only by my misery. I couldn't imagine working anywhere else, which meant I couldn't imagine better working conditions, better pay or a better personal life.