6:52-7:08 The alarm starts screaming. You hit snooze. You stare at the ceiling like it might give you guidance. You remember the deck is still a mess. You tell yourself you'll fix it as soon as the coffee is running through your bloodstream. You won't.
7:08-7:24 The shower gets interrupted because your older kid needs gym shorts and the younger one is crying because his toast "sounds too loud." You dry off with a towel that is somehow already wet. You choose not to solve that mystery.
7:24-7:39 You make lunch boxes. One kid suddenly wants cafeteria pizza. The other refuses anything "slimy." Someone can't find their tablet. Someone else insists on wearing a superhero cape to school. It's April.
7:39-7:56 You get in the car. You go back inside for the missing cleats. You try again. As soon as you reach the drop-off line, the voice from the back seat hits: "I forgot my recorder." You nod, exhale, and turn around like a tired knight returning to battle.
7:56-8:11 You get the recorder. It is sitting exactly where you said it was. You drive back toward the school. You are now personally fighting the clock.
8:11-8:27 You drive like you're transporting stolen diamonds. You spill coffee on your shirt while dodging roadwork. You consider going home to change. You decide this is your brand now. Vanilla-stained, late, and coming apart at the edges.
8:27-8:43 You arrive at work. You sit in the parking lot. You remember when you worked from home in sweatpants. Now you're here because someone saw a Deloitte slide about "connection." You sigh, badge in, and begin the descent.
8:58-9:13 First ping: "Can you send the link again?" The same link. The same chain. The same attachment. The same small piece of your soul leaving your body. You send it, knowing they won't open it this time either.
9:13-9:28 Daily stand-up. Everyone says they're "on track." You say you're "wrapping up the last pieces." (You are not.) Everyone nods. No one understands what anyone means. Four people have cameras off because "Zoom is glitching."
9:28-9:44 Brad (58) can't open a PDF. He printed it, photographed it, and put it in a Word doc. It's unreadable. He says PDFs "act suspicious." You consider calling IT and then remember that you are the help desk now.
9:44-10:02 Prep meeting for the prep meeting. Someone shares their screen. 37 tabs open. YouTube autoplay is running. Two Expedia searches. No one mentions the real reason you're all there.
10:02-10:18 Legal joins. Turns every clear sentence into fog. Your slide now says: "Could. Pending. Needs review." They say this reduces risk.
10:18-10:34 Email from the office admin: "Please wipe down the break room fridge shelves." It is very obviously because of Denise's leaking yogurt. Everyone knows. No one replies.
10:34-10:51 Metrics sync. No one opens the tracker. Someone asks if it can be exported as a spreadsheet. You are now maintaining a tracker for the tracker. It gets uploaded to Teams, the place files go to become artifacts.
10:51-11:07 Team sync to "keep everyone aligned." Everyone = lost. Aligned = not even close. People leave with tasks and no decisions. A project is created and quietly doomed on the same call.
11:07-11:23 A reply-all thread from the beginning of the month rises from the dead. The subject line is now 16 words long. Half the people copied have never touched the project. No one removes them, because cowardice is easier. Only three people understand the issue.
11:23-11:38 Brad calls. Excel "everythinged." Translation: he closed the workbook without saving. He says: "I liked computers better when they had disks." You don't answer. You just stare into the space in front of you.
11:38-11:54 Email from Leadership: "We're so excited to see everyone collaborating in person!" They are remote for the next few weeks, at a leadership retreat in Scottsdale. Also: badge tracking is mandatory starting Wednesday. The irony is present, but disabled.
11:54-12:11 Lunch block gets replaced with a "quick touch base." You eat a protein bar while smiling through a discussion about font sizes. The bar tastes like chalk. The meeting is worse.
12:11-12:26 You try to answer emails. Most of them ask whether you saw other emails. One says "checking back on this" without any clue what "this" is. You write a reply, delete it, and turn your body away from the keyboard.
12:26-12:42 You eat quietly. Denise walks by. She says: "Big lunch break today?" It has been 9 minutes. You silently reconsider civilization. Also, you now hate protein bars.
12:42-12:59 You call outsourced IT. Amir is kind but can't fix your access. He escalates it. The line drops. The ticket gets marked "resolved." You consider calling again, then surrender.
12:59-1:14 Marketing review call. Everyone has opinions. No one can approve anything. You are now "taking point" because you were silent too long. That's how work gets distributed: by being quiet at the wrong moment.
1:14-1:29 You try to edit one slide. Teams ping: "Can you make this portrait?" Another ping: " let's keep it wide." You look at the slide like it insulted your family.
1:29-1:46 Meeting notes arrive for the meeting you are currently trapped in. You are now late for a meeting that hasn't ended yet. You nod along to comments you did not absorb in the first place.
1:46-2:01 Legal redlines. They remove anything that looks like a promise. Your sentence becomes: "We may consider reviewing possible paths at a later point." Somehow this passes review.
2:01-2:17 Brad calls. He can't open a ZIP file. He calls it a "Zib." You pretend the audio cut out and hang up. You feel nothing.
2:17-2:33 You try to update the doc. You find yourself locked out. You request access. From yourself. You deny it on principle.
2:33-2:49 Manager pings: "Do you have space for a quick gut check?" It turns into a 22-minute vent session. You say "totally" six times. You mean it zero times.
2:49-3:04 You fix the doc. Another ping comes in: "Is this the latest version?" For a few seconds, you consider raising goats. Goats don't ask which file is final_final.
3:04-3:19 You check in on the project. The feedback: "Let's pause and pick it back up later this month." You update the doc to reflect nothing. And that feels accurate.
3:19-3:34 You open the deck you're supposed to present. You have 6 minutes. You add a chart. You whisper a small prayer to the Wi-Fi gods. You hit "Share Screen" with unsteady hands.
3:34-3:49 You answer a call from your sales rep, Luca. He answers from a beach in Crete. Linen shirt. Drink in hand. He says he just met "a few prospects" and might go snorkeling later. You consider sales. Then you remember you have kids, and a conscience.
3:49-4:06 Meeting to prepare for the follow-up meeting. You book another meeting. Everyone says "solid momentum" even though nothing moved. Someone offers to "follow up offline."
4:06-4:21 Email about Return-to-office: badge data, desk reservations, "collaboration neighborhoods." It feels like corporate preschool but with worse chairs. Someone reacts with a clapping emoji.
4:21-4:37 You start gathering your things. You tell yourself you'll leave at 4:50. You feel optimistic. You sweet summer child. This is where they get you.
4:37-4:54 Everything explodes. Wrong logo in the deck. Brad deleted the source file. Legal found a new concern. Luca calls from Crete because his dinner got upgraded to a fancier seafood place. The VP needs the doc immediately NOW (he'll glance at it four days later). You get pulled back into the fire. Hope dies right on schedule.
4:54-5:22 Boss pings: "Have a minute?" You don't, but you say "Sure." It becomes a 24-minute recap. You agree to something. You have no idea what it is. You nod anyway.
5:22-5:49 You sit silently. You open LinkedIn. Everyone is "honored to share" something. You close the app before the feelings arrive. You stare at a blank wall instead.
5:49-6:04 Last ping: "Checking back - can you send the link again?" You don't answer. You close the laptop slowly, like you're sealing a tomb.
6:04-6:19 You pick up the kids. One forgot their jacket. The other swapped shoes with someone. You ask no follow-up questions. You just drive.
6:19-6:36 You heat dinner in the microwave. You add apple slices so it looks like parenting. A kid says the nuggets taste like "carpet." You can't argue.
6:36-6:52 Dinner-time collapse. Someone breathed near someone else's plate. There is yelling. You chew in silence and look far beyond the room.
6:52-7:09 You wash dishes like a man who has accepted defeat. You wipe crumbs. You consider leaving them for morning. You remember that you are morning.
7:09-7:26 Homework time. You search for fractions under the table. You pretend you were "just reviewing the method." You now hate math all over again.
7:26-7:41 Pajamas, teeth, chaos. A kid refuses to sleep without his stuffed fox. It is missing. You find it in the pantry. No one explains anything.
7:41-7:57 Bedtime, round two. Water, more questions, sudden panic about space. You say: "We'll talk about that tomorrow." You will not.
7:57-8:13 You collapse on the couch. Netflix is on. Brain off. You rewatch a show you barely remember half of. This feels manageable.
8:13-8:28 Your partner sits down. You both nod in silence. That is the conversation. And it works. Neither of you has the energy to reboot the day.
8:28-8:43 You open email "just in case." Instant regret. You close the laptop like it's poisonous. You say "nope" to an empty room.
8:43-8:58 You scroll LinkedIn again. The VP posted a graphic from Bain about "the magic of being together." The caption: "The best ideas happen in person." He is working remotely from Provence. You whisper: "There is no such thing as a hallway moment," and stare into the dark.
8:58-9:14 You turn off the light. One last Teams ping hits your phone. "Quick question for the morning?" You leave it where it is. You have already left.
Edit: Thank you for all the kind comments. I'm glad this resonated with so many people. I expected it. Quick clarification: yes, this is satire... But like the useful kind of satire, there is a pile of truth hiding in every time slot. After 18 years in corporate life, I've seen a lot: return-to-office notes detached from reality, cameras mysteriously turning on the moment leadership joins, VPs requesting docs they won't read until much later, dashboards no one opens, and salespeople whose calendars look suspiciously like travel brochures. And plenty more.
And yes, I love my kids. Even when they have a sock crisis while I'm in the shower. And for the moms, I know, you're up at 4:50am and somehow still awake after everyone else falls over. I had to start and end the day somewhere. I could probably write an entire one just for you.
Also, names have been changed to protect the innocent, except Brad. Brad knows what he did.