Five weeks ago, Danny, Sean, and I were riding in Danny’s late-model SUV whooshing up I-5 toward the California-Oregon border. It was a comfortable ride; we laughed and talked about life. My friend Danny dropped a bombshell question: “How much do you work?”
It seemed like an innocent enough question. Sean worked seven to four. He dressed in the closet to avoid waking Heidi. Danny worked ten hour days but felt thankful because he’s on salary rather than commissions now. He beat traffic by starting early.
I sat there, thinking. My brain worked slowly. I felt exhausted, with reason. I spent the previous week working as hard as possible to finish a release for a surly client. There were just too many late nights and early mornings for my brain to function at full capacity that afternoon.
What was the number? Was it 40, 50, 60? I blurted out “I bill about 32 hours a week.” Realizing I sounded like I kept bankers hours, I quickly told them the rest of the story. I typically wake and check my email. The email draws me in; something usually catches my attention and I respond. After a while the family wakes up and invites me down to breakfast. So I take a quick break for food and a shower then back to the computer to focus on billable work. Most days I work until dinner on billable work punctuated by appointments to maintain the network, prospect and generally run the biz. General administration or accounting or email or feeds or system administration or unearthing my desk fill many evenings after dinner and some family time. Not all, as Nicole and I occasionally enjoy a movie or a date, but many.
I don’t know how many working hours that adds up to. It’s like, all of them, except the ones I don’t. Running your own biz is like that.
Does it have to be? I’m not sure but I thought a lot about the question the past five weeks.