Read This If You’re Dating A Workaholic And It (Kind Of) Sucks

We knew it would be tough. I knew it would be tough—he warned me, and I knew. We’re a month in, and whaddaya know, we were right—it’s tough.

I hauled my ass down on an over-crowded, under-ventilated Peter Pan bus to visit him for the long weekend—five unpleasant hours from Williamstown to Port Authority. I told my parents I was coming home to visit them, too—I think they know that if it weren’t for him, I would’ve stayed at school to study for midterms. But this was supposed to be his first work-free weekend since he started his job, so exams be damned: I was getting on that bus, no matter how sharply that coach stunk of urine.

When I got here, though, I was slapped with a sad reality check; in his line of work, when you’re his kind of guy, oftentimes, the job steals what little freedom it promised you—he’d been staffed, and he’d have to put in plenty of weekend hours, after all. So here I am, sitting on my parents’ couch, writing a story I didn’t think I’d write today, while he grinds. He’s not sure when he’ll be done—certainly not in time for dinner, but hopefully before 10 p.m. Today is Saturday, btw.

We knew it would be tough. I knew it would be tough—he warned me, and I knew. We’re a month in, and whaddaya know, we were right—it’s tough.

I was, admittedly, mildly heartbroken when he delivered the shitty news. He works ungodly hours while I attend a maximum 150 minutes of class per day and regularly wake up after 11 a.m.—our schedules are completely out of sync, and even though we “talk” everyday, it’s just that: “talk.” A “hi” from him during his coffee break. An immediate “hey what’s up!” from me. Silence for a few hours. Another “hi” at dinner—his texts are signals of life more than they are conversation-starters. And I don’t blame him—he’s just started a career that’ll exhaust his humanity for the first few years, and then probably still; I don’t expect him to set aside his work to exchange sweet nothings with me during his 18-hour day. I never did.

Inevitably, though, disappointment consumes; when he told me our weekend together was no more, my initial thought was not, “That’s totally ok, babe, I understand.” It was, irrationally, “Um…..fuck you, fuck your job, fuck this. I’m gonna go cry into a fat tub of Nutella and plot the ruin of American capitalism, now.”

We knew it would be tough. I knew it would be tough—he warned me, and I knew. We’re a month in, and whaddaya know, we were right—it’s tough.

Here’s the great paradox of this shitty ordeal: Acute workaholism inconveniences our relationship in a million ways, but the symptoms—ambition, energy, diligence, confidence—are among the many reasons why I love him. He’s a smart, driven, self-motivated dude; he knows what he wants, and he’s happy to sweat through his twenties to get it.

And I love that about him.

And I’m proud of him—if I were to disclose his job, you’d be impressed. Everyone’s impressed. He’s the clean-shaven, tireless kid most parents wish they had. And he loves his work, too—that’s the best part. He really, really loves it. And he rarely—and I mean rarely—complains about the price. So, ultimately, I love his work, too. Because I love him, and he loves it—and he wouldn’t be the same guy if he didn’t.

We knew it would be tough. I knew it would be tough—he warned me, and I knew. We’re a month in, and whaddaya know, we were right—it’s tough.

But then, no one ever told me relationships were easy.