I yawn awake at the painfully early hour of noon o’clock to the pinging of 1,005 unread emails. A voicemail from my boss leaps to the top of my mountain of notifications: “PLEASE LOG INTO TEAMS NOW!!” I take a deep breath and realize it’s the perfect time to grab a cup of coffee and a croissant from the café around the corner.
At the coffee shop, I join a group of working-from-home guys typing away on their laptops. They inspire me to work on my pressing daily tasks: New Yorker or Wordle. Fortunately, I expensed my subscription this month as “emotional support software.” I consider checking my work messages while on my laptop, but I hesitate. My company uses Slack (a communication software), and I understand that as a directive, not a software.
The unbearable stress of upcoming Teams meetings has pushed me to take my first break of the day, but certainly not the last. As a WFH (“work from home” or “will fire her”) employee, I prioritize my mental health. My mind is a temple.
Out of my never-ending pile of notifications, one catches my eye: a new Spotify playlist. It begins with “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton. Her lyrics convey an understanding of the grind of my job, even if I’m only working twelve to four. I desperately need her inspiration to power through.
After my brief two-hour break, I head home to dive back into work. The jumbled, incorrect spreadsheets whose numbers dictate the future of this company were due three weeks ago. Attempting to cope with the strain, I bring my focus to my favorite job responsibilities: walking around the house without pants on, binging a new show, and writing meal-prep ideas that will never come to fruition.
Before turning to WFH, my boss was worried we’d miss the office’s social festivities. He was totally wrong, though, because I attended an ice-cream-tasting event and a public reading from my favourite author last week while working. My boss loves that I’m always working, no matter what I do.
Soon after transitioning to WFH, the five-day workweek turned into a two-day workweek. We call it the “reverse weekend.” The eight-hour workday is a curse from the distant past. Now, I work in five-minute increments and break when my chakras are misaligned. I can also take care of laundry, groceries, and anything involving child care. Picking them up from basketball lessons? No problem, bad reception on the computer. No more milk in the fridge? Bad reception and off to the store I go. Easy.
I do miss a few elements of working in-office while being remote, such as profound conversations (gossip mostly) with my coworkers in the cafeteria. I long for the human connection of “Hey,” “How’s it going?” and “Can you please stop taking seventeen bathroom breaks a day to avoid work?” and “Have you heard that they caught A with S in the car the other day? NAKED! Oh, and he has a new BMW!!”
Usually, bosses always believe that nothing makes employees more productive like being chained to a desk in an office that looks like a hospital. They are wrong, of course, because now my working attitude and loyalty are at an all-time high. I’m loyal to all ten hours of actual work I have done this week.
Speaking of which—this internet is down again. Time to sign off for today.
