When I was working at my first job, I never got stuck in rush-hour traffic. I would leave home after the gridlock, and by 4 o’clock, I would be packing my bag early to beat the traffic home.
I maintained this schedule of 6-7 hours per day for years, and nobody questioned me about it for a long time. Firstly, I worked at a client site, so they never raised any eyebrows when I arrived long after everyone else – they just assumed that I had been working from home or at another building in the city.
Secondly, my outputs were immense. I’m not just bragging – my metrics were consistently at the top of the table for my team, so the notion that I was not warming a seat for a full 40 hour week was never on my boss’s radar.
It’s Friday evening here in New Zealand, and another work week has just reached the end of the line.
My commuting costs were nil, my conversations with coworkers and managers were limited to the comfortable arms-length of phone calls and email, and no one disrupted my work by demanding that I attend to their needs right now, like some sort of needy toddler.
To this slightly-reclusive introvert, it was bliss.
I honestly thought that he was going to pop a blood vessel and give himself a brain bleed or something. He was yelling and swearing and demanding that if someone has something to say, they should say it to his face.