When I was apartment-shopping, I felt genuine conflict between a one-bedroom I could afford and a two-bedroom I couldn’t (did I really want to have a housemate if things got dire?) As I search for a crappy little car to get my dog to the vet and back once a month, part of me says to get something nice enough that I can use it to drive for Uber if I ever need to.
We’re all hustling: for a promotion, for a passive income stream, for a safety net, for a way out. Sometimes we give side hustles and the gig economy a makeover and call it “freelancing” or “entrepreneurship” (which, by the way, is French for “full of shit”). Let’s call it what it is: a symptom of our decaying capitalist hellscape.
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I once had a friend curl her lip in disgust when I told her that I did my job to the letter, no more, no less. “I’m glad I’m not your manager,” she said, “because I expect my team to go above and beyond every day.” Our middle managers and capitalist overlords share the same belief in limitless productivity, the idea that 110 per cent is a starting point, that leisure is a synonym for lazy. Good for their bottom line, apocalyptic for our wellbeing.
During my first week of leave, I was more anxious at home than I was at the office. I started home improvement projects, burned through audiobooks, laboured over plot structures, stuck a rigid gym routine to the fridge, wrote to-do lists and set alarms, because time off was a privilege, and I wasn’t about to waste it. When I caught myself getting teary in a Bunnings aisle because the brackets I wanted were out of stock, I knew it was time to stop. I went home and accepted the blank stretch of laundry wall where shelves were supposed to go. I relaxed for the first time in three years and felt more exhausted than ever. And then I began to heal.
I’m done with toxic productivity. I welcome nourishing rest.
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