No one sets out to be a workaholic...

When an acquaintance asked for her phone number, she began to rattle off her extension at work and caught herself, saying, “No, sorry…that’s my work number. My home number is....” She couldn’t remember. She searched her mind. All that was there was the number for the cubicle where she sat day in and day out. The fact that her work number was the only one engrained in her memory, she felt, was a startling reflection of her highly mismanaged priorities.