Work Grind

Jobs, bosses, and the Monday struggle.

Your weekend died Sunday night. Funeral is at 8 AM Monday, dress code is whatever was clean, and coffee is not a beverage here — it is a legally binding contract signed by you, your nervous system, and whatever ancient god invented the bean. Nobody speaks before the contract is fulfilled. Nobody asks one quick question. Urgent can wait until the mug is empty, and if you show up before 7 AM without an offering, the offering had better be coffee.

Inside, the boss is calling everybody family again, which is lovely until you ask about your inheritance, your raise, or why family always means covering a Saturday. The diet has started forty-seven Mondays in a row and remains the most consistent relationship in your life. Somewhere a pug in a suit is walking into an interview that is not really an interview — it is a notification — because he will work for treats and his résumé is stronger than half the building. This is the corner of Daily Grins for everyone counting hours, dodging meetings that should have been emails, and measuring the workday in refills. Clock in, grin through it, and clock out like you stole something. Which, spiritually, you did. It was your own time back. Send your favorite one to the coworker who schedules the 7 AM meeting. You know the one. We all know the one.