Tap, tap tap. Clatter, clatter, clatter. I hear them fervently type away. They stop. They take a deep breath. They read out loud and/or think aloud what they are typing. They resume. I’ve become so accustomed to the pattern of sounds, I tune it out easily. This process repeats and recycles itself for the entire 9-5p shift.
During my first few days I could not help but think, what are they saying so much? Who do they communicate with so frequently? These people are the definition of workaholics.
Workaholic: (work·a·hol·ic)
wərkəˈhôlik, wərkəˈhälik/
noun
informal
1. a person who compulsively works hard and long hours.
Mhmm sounds about right (sidenote: the definition should also include working through their lunch hour). There is never enough time in the day for them to finish their insistent clacking.
But I adapted, accepted and made it a normalcy. So much so that I gradually began eating at my desk and completing tasks. I left my job with more work for the next day. How was it possible that I created more assignments for myself rather than finish them? I began reading aloud my writing, asking for advice on how to even compose the beginning of a simple email.
Dear Dr. X,
Can we meet today at 1pm?
Most graciously,
Isabelle
P.s. what?!
In what seemed like a blink of an eye, I had become just another robot to the 9-5p enslavement, bound by its chains of constant producing and endless demanding. So here’s what I propose, a change. A change in the evil 9-5p, 2 weeks of vacay a year business. Mr. President-elect, can you hear me? It’s me, Isabelle. This proposal would be a lovely touch to your policies, much more than building a wall and registering Muslims. Priorities, thank youuu.
