Five Days Out of Seven?

There are very few scams humanity has accepted more enthusiastically than work.

Think about it. We are born, we spend the first several years learning how to walk, speak, read, wipe ourselves properly, and function in society. Then someone hands us a backpack, sends us to school for twelve to sixteen years, and says, “Good news. All of this has been preparing you to answer emails.”

Emails. That’s the payoff.

At some point in human history, one of our ancestors looked around at the trees, rivers, animals, sunshine, and abundant existential mystery and apparently said, “You know what would improve this? Performance evaluations.”

Who the fuck invented work?

I want names.

I realize the technical answer is probably something boring involving agriculture, specialization, trade, and civilization. People had to plant crops, build shelter, hunt food, sew clothes, make tools. Fine. I accept that somebody had to milk the goat.

But there is an enormous philosophical distance between milking a goat so you don’t starve and sitting in a fluorescent conference room while someone says, “Let’s circle back.”

That is where civilization lost the plot.

Early humans worked because winter was coming. We work because Karen scheduled a mandatory 3:30 meeting about improving communication.

And somehow the meeting runs until 4:47.

Work has become such a foundational part of adult life that we barely question it anymore. “What do you do?” is one of the first things strangers ask each other, as if your occupation is your species classification.

“I’m an accountant.” “I’m a nurse.” “I’m an administrator.” “I’m in marketing.”

Nobody says, “I like old movies, I make excellent adobo, and I occasionally stare into the refrigerator hoping something new has materialized.”

No. We introduce ourselves by the thing we do in exchange for money so we can continue being alive. Which, when phrased correctly, sounds slightly dystopian.

And the craziest part is that most of us don’t even hate work itself. We hate the bullshit attached to it.

People generally like being useful. There is satisfaction in solving a problem, fixing something, building something, helping someone, cooking something, teaching something, creating something. Humans have always done things.

What humans were probably not designed for is Outlook. Or time sheets. Or “gentle reminders." Or replying “Thanks!” to an email that did not require a reply because workplace etiquette has somehow turned us all into hostage negotiators.

There are entire professions built around pretending we are delighted to receive information.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

Translation: Who the fuck did this?

“I appreciate your feedback.”

Translation: I hope your printer catches fire.

“Per my previous email.”

Translation: I already told you this, Karen.

And then there is the five-day workweek. Five. Out of seven.

Who negotiated this deal?

Because whoever represented labor at that meeting did not negotiate aggressively enough.

Imagine being offered seven days of existence and agreeing to give five of them to employment.

That is 71 percent of your week.

Seventy-one percent.

And that does not include commuting, getting dressed for work, thinking about work, complaining about work, recovering from work, checking your phone because someone from work sent a message, or lying in bed Sunday night thinking, “Fuck. Tomorrow.”

By the time Saturday arrives, half the day is spent recovering from Friday. Then Sunday appears and starts threatening you with Monday around noon.

So really, you have about eleven usable hours of freedom per week.

Congratulations. Here is your life. Please enjoy responsibly.

Of course, capitalism did not invent work. People worked long before corporations, payroll departments, LinkedIn, and laminated employee badges. But modern life did something extraordinarily clever. It turned survival into a subscription service.

Housing: monthly.

Electricity: monthly.

Phone: monthly.

Internet: monthly.

Insurance: monthly.

Car: monthly.

Debt: monthly.

Streaming service so you can emotionally recover from all the other monthly expenses: monthly.

So we keep working. Not necessarily because we are passionately committed to maximizing shareholder value, but because apparently the mortgage company lacks a sense of humor.

And somewhere along the way, society decided that being exhausted is admirable. People brag about working sixty-hour weeks like they personally discovered penicillin.

“I haven’t taken a vacation in four years.”

Why are you telling me this? Call a travel agent.

“I answer emails at midnight.” Congratulations on your captivity.

“I only slept four hours.” That is not ambition. That is insomnia with direct deposit.

We created an entire culture where saying “I’m busy” sounds more respectable than saying “I’m happy.” Which is insane.

Nobody lies on their deathbed whispering, “I just wish I had attended one more budget meeting.” Nobody’s final regret is going to be, “If only I had responded to that Teams message sooner.”

And yet here we are, spending enormous portions of our brief human existence discussing staffing, budgets, schedules, deadlines, reports, productivity, quarterly goals, and whether someone remembered to attach the attachment. They did not. They never do. Then somebody replies all. Now twelve people are involved.

This is civilization.

Still, I know what would happen if everyone stopped working tomorrow. Hospitals would shut down. Food wouldn’t get delivered. Power grids would fail. Toilets would eventually become a serious issue.

So yes, work is necessary. Some work.

The question is whether all of this fucking work is necessary.

Do we really need forty emails about something that could have been one phone call?

Do we need seven layers of management approving a $38 purchase?

Do we need meetings to prepare for meetings?

Do we need annual evaluations where two adults sit across from each other pretending “areas of opportunity” is a normal phrase?

Somewhere, the person who invented the wheel is looking at us and thinking, “This is not what I had in mind.”

Perhaps the real problem is not work. Maybe the problem is that humanity took a reasonable concept — contribute something useful and receive something useful in return — and turned it into an identity, a moral virtue, a personality trait, and occasionally a hostage situation.

Work should fund life. It should not become life. We should work enough to contribute, survive, build things, help people, and afford the occasional irresponsible purchase that briefly convinces us everything is fine.

Then we should go home. Actually go home. Mentally too. Close the laptop. Ignore the email.

The building will still be there tomorrow. Probably.

And if civilization collapses because you didn’t respond to a message at 9:47 p.m., civilization was already hanging by a thread.

So who invented work?

I don’t know.

But whoever eventually invented weekends deserves a fucking statue.