A few months ago, I was hiking with a friend when I tripped and pulled my hamstring. We both had our own alpine climbing goals that summer, and I’d been looking at our morning hike as a training opportunity. I didn’t want to hold either of us back.
I assured him that I’d be able to hobble along at our same brisk pace and, when that became impossible, told him that he should leave me behind. Instead, he sat down beside me on the trail. It shouldn’t have felt revolutionary, but it did.
And it made me realize just how much I’d let my own obsession with productivity bleed into my recreational life. I am a person who lives in fear of my own idleness. Every spare scrap of my time is scheduled, tracked, color-coded, and accounted for.
The other day, my partner glanced over my shoulder at my phone and asked if I was playing Candy Crush. Fill my schedule with social plans, and I’ll never be lonely. Control my time, and maybe I’ll feel like I’m controlling my life.
On the other hand, I do genuinely like doing stuff. When I lie on my deathbed, I want to feel fully wrung out, like I gave my all to this whole business of life and left no shred of time on the table. Some folks would call that approach very industrious, or very American.
Others would call it toxic productivity. Toxic productivity is a fairly modern term that encompasses both the desperate need to be productive at all costs—and the guilt that sets in after a day without measurable output. It can look like working long hours at the office.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
