It's the end of a 60-hour work week that began at 9:00 a.m. Monday and ended at just 5:50 p.m. this evening, broken up by a little over 20 walked miles. It sounds like a lot, and it is — on both counts. The commuting distance and time is normal for me — about 5 miles a day. But 60 hours of busywork on top of that was inhumane. The walking is a strange icing: a big investment, but it keeps me sane and nimble.

I often meet people who say they work 60-hour work weeks — or even 80-hour weeks (no one says 70, interestingly) — but I rarely believe them. I track my time pretty closely, and I don't track breaks or commuting, etc. Turns out, you feel as though you're working continuously, and it's true in spirit as it requires the full and sustained effort of your being to achieve it. But it's actually really difficult to log that many hours in five days unless you stay in one place most of the time, even through meals, and don't do anything else. People I meet who say they routinely work long weeks have social lives too active to back up the claim. I know the 60-hour and 80-hour workers are out there, but they aren't the ones at the bar or the party telling you they're working that much. They're at work.

When people ask me what I've been up to and I tell them that I've been working a lot, they invariably ask why and I explain that I'm working on materials in support of a product launch. I'm always surprised when I detect a slight flicker behind their eyes as their attention fades. Maybe it's a common defense among people who live in software towns. Or maybe when someone hears that you're working a lot they expect to learn that your effort was toward something glamorous and then are disappointed that the cause is prosaic. Maybe they just don't believe you. Sometimes I hear myself tell it and the explanation sounds foreign. The words tumble out mature and well-formed from being churned in my brain all day. Only then, when they've been let loose and are roving around the room, do I realize that they've escaped their habitat. They're muscular, and they convince others that I care, which in fact I don't. I only care about the tragedy of the sacrifice, not its purpose. As the listeners invariably disengage, so the topic dies, and we go on to talk about other things.

Monday at 10:00 a.m., my computer popped a blue screen and failed to come back up, even in safe mode, even when I tried to boot into the bios. I lost seven hours getting set up on a new machine, but I managed to make up for it and get ahead a little so that I don't have to work on the weekend.

Since the work week officially ended, I have had a massage, eaten the leftovers of the stir fry I made last night, and watched a much-anticipated first episode from the last half of the last season of the Battlestar Galactica series. I don't know how the series ends.

The weather promises to be all the spring we haven't had; even though I'm dead tired, I'm excited for two free days, the bright light, and the fresh air. I relish the wondering what I will do.