And with great results too. I've progressed in Operation Deny from ignoring adverse weather events to ignoring things like rest and sleep in order to add a little work/life balance into my life. The problem is that when work is an 18 hour day, that leaves very little time for sleep and fun. Fun, I've decided, should definitely come first.
I've been in Manchester working as usual this week. Tuesday and Wednesday were marathon almost-all-night sessions, which had me shuttling from the client's office to my hotel, Malmaison (affectionately nicknamed the Bad House by myself and my colleagues) for a few hours' sleep before waking up not knowing where I was, getting back in a cab, and going back to the client's office. I was the "day shift" (which started around 9 am and ended around 3 am the next day), while a senior associate leading the deal was the "night shift" (Slept until 4 pm, then got up and went to 8 am the next day).
By Thursday, I was absolutely beside myself with exhaustion. I even spent an entire half-hour in the afternoon speaking to a colleague about various work matters with my head on his desk. Two of my colleagues from London came up for Friday meetings and we decided to go out to dinner at Gaucho that evening, which I'd been whining about via Blackberry:"Somebody get up here and take me to dinner. I want me some moo-cow." I was so tired, though, that I had my doubts about being able to make it through the starters. We started with a drink with some of the client's legal team at Zinc, which actually perked me up enough that I thought I'd be able to actually enjoy my sirloin. It's amazing what a little G & T will do for you.
On to Gaucho. 7 ounces of beef, probably the equivalent in gin, and a few hours later, miraculously, none of us felt the least bit sleepy and decided it was time to head back to the Malmaison Bar for a nightcap or six. Our senior associate bowed out quite early, but myself, my office-mate from London, the junior associate on the deal, and one of my buddies from the client's legal department decided to keep going. At 3:30, we were kicked out of the bar and thought it would be a good idea to systematically work our way through the contents of my mini bar, while pondering such important questions as, "If you had to be one biblical figure, who would you be?" (Mary Magdalene), "If you had to be one politician, who would you be?" (Pierre Trudeau), and, "If you were Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal, would you sleep with someone for a million dollars, given that, with today's inflation rate, it would probably be five million?" (Stupid question.)
Around 4 a.m., I decided it was a good night for dancing and the gang enthusiastically agreed. Our junior went upstairs to get her coat, saw her bed, and bowed out by Blackberry. It was down to me and the boys. Out we went, caught a cab, tried to fib our way into an all-night private members' club and got the door slammed in our faces, then found a scuzzy underground club that was still open and playing the most shiteous, wonderful dancing music imaginable. The boys started drinking Red Stripe beer (bad idea), I stuck to the gin, and we took to the dance floor.
I was very, very popular at this club. I think it had something to do with the fact that I was the only girl there. And it wasn't a gay club. As my colleagues looked on with howls of laughter, one by one, suitors came to strut their stuff on the dance floor and try to win my attention. One guy fell to his knees in front of me doing air guitar. Repeatedly. He was the boys' favorite. One took my hand and spun me around and around until I thought I would break a heel. One wanted me to engage in some sort of choreographed routine to ABBA with him. Meanwhile, the boys downed Red Stripe after Red Stripe and waved at me from afar, studiously ignoring every "Help me. Get over here NOW" smile I flashed at them. Eventually, my suitors drifted away, and it was just me and the boys on the floor, dancing to such classics as "Billie Jean," "Come on Eileen," and "The Grease Megamix." My office-mate, a very dapper young guy who we always joke is straight out of Brideshead Revisited, twisted away like it was 1963, while my other colleague, from Manchester, favored a more Saturday Night Fever style of dancing, with lots of pointing.
Sadly, the music ended around 5:30 a.m. The boys were insistent that we not stop now, there were still four and a half hours until we absolutely had to be at work again, and we hopped in a cab and headed to the gay village to see if we could find anywhere that was open. Alas, since it wasn't a weekend, it was not to be, and we returned to the hotel and the mini bar. The idea was to stay awake until breakfast.
Around 6:30 am the boys were still chattering away and finishing off the last of the beer in the mini bar, but I decided I needed a sleep and called it a night. Somehow, I managed to wake up at 9:30, shower, get to the office, and put in a productive day before making it home to London last night on the train. My senior associate remarked with wonder to the rest of the team in London via conference call that I looked "remarkably fresh" given my ordeal. One of my clients, vastly amused, was leaving in the early afternoon, and tasked everyone else in the department with monitoring me and reporting back if I even once dared to mention that I was tired.
The boys didn't fare as well. One fell asleep in his room with his blackberry in his hands, but forgot to set the alarm and wasn't able to arrive until well after noon. One managed to stumble in on time, waves of booze wafting off him, and was unable to walk or talk by mid-afternoon and could only sit at his desk and pray for the day to be over soon.
So, the work-life balance exercise continues. Back up to Manchester on Monday. To be honest, I'll probably spend the weekend sleeping.