I should tell you about work.
I still work. Not because I need to, particularly—though thanks to the housing market being what it is, I will probably need to work until I'm approximately 147 years old—but because I don't know what else to do with myself. Retirement sounds like death, but with more golf and less dignity.
But the office isn't what it used to be. The office used to be a place with desks and phones and people who talked to each other. Now it's a place with "hoteling stations" and "collaboration pods" and an app that tells you where to sit based on "synergy optimization."
My company—I'm not going to name it, but let's just say it makes something boring that everyone needs and no one cares about—moved to a "hybrid workspace model" last year. This means I have to go into the office three days a week to sit in a different place each time and try to remember the names of people who are twenty-five and all look vaguely the same.
The first thing you notice about the modern office is that no one talks. Everyone is on Slack. Even when they're sitting right next to each other. I have watched two people, sitting at adjacent desks, have an entire conversation via instant messaging while I sat between them, slowly losing my mind.
"Good morning," I said to someone last Tuesday. I was trying. I was making an effort.
They looked up, alarmed. Like I had spoken in tongues. Like verbal communication was an act of aggression. They typed something. My phone buzzed.
*Hey! Good morning!* the Slack message said. *Great to see you!*
"I can see you right now," I said. "You're right there. I can see your face. We could just... talk?"
They looked terrified. They typed again. My phone buzzed.
*LOL!* it said. *That's funny! Let's circle back on that!*
I don't know what "circle back" means. In my day, circling back was something you did in a car when you missed your exit. Now it seems to mean "I don't want to deal with this right now but I'm going to pretend I will later."
But the worst part—the absolute worst part—is the standing desk.
Everyone has a standing desk now. Not because they want to stand, but because some spreadsheet somewhere said that sitting is "the new smoking," which is a phrase that makes me want to commit acts of violence against whoever coined it. So now everyone stands at their desks, looking like they're playing a very boring game of Simon Says, occasionally shifting from foot to foot like they need to use the bathroom.
I tried it. I stood for three hours. My knees filed a formal complaint. My back sent a cease and desist letter. My feet asked for a divorce. I sat down and I haven't stood up since, except for biological necessities and the occasional rebellion against optimization culture.
"You're supposed to stand," said a young person whose name I think is either Tyler or Taylor or possibly just a series of consonants. "Sitting is killing you."
"Everything is killing me," I said. "Coffee is killing me. Sitting is killing me. Standing is probably killing me. Air is killing me, slowly, through oxidation. I'm going to die, Tyler-Taylor. We all are. That's the deal. The standing desk just makes me die with sore feet."
Tyler-Taylor looked at me with concern. They typed something into Slack. I didn't check my phone. I was already dead inside anyway.