At 9:58 a.m., I made a mistake.
I joined the meeting early.
There I was. Alone. Staring at my own face in a tiny square and wondering if that's really what I look like when I'm listening.
At 10:02, someone joined.
“Hey! How are you?”
“Good! You?”
“Good!”
Excellent.
We've covered everything.
At 10:04, someone suggested we “give everyone another minute.”
Why?
They know where we are.
At 10:08, the meeting officially began.
At 10:17, someone asked a question answered in the email.
At 10:31, we took something “offline.”
At 10:46, someone announced, “I know we're at time,” with absolutely no intention of behaving accordingly.
At 10:53, the meeting finally ended.
With another meeting.
And as I stared at the calendar invitation arriving before my soul had fully returned to my body, I couldn't help but wonder:
Is corporate America actually working—or are we just scheduling meetings to discuss the work we'd be doing if we weren't in meetings?
The Meeting Has Become the Adult Version of Detention
Nobody knows exactly why we're here.
Nobody wants to be here.
And one person is talking significantly more than the situation requires.
The difference is that detention eventually ended.
A recurring meeting can survive generations.
People leave companies.
Departments restructure.
Entire software systems are replaced.
Yet somehow every Wednesday at 2:00, twelve people continue gathering to discuss a spreadsheet nobody remembers creating.
At this point, the meeting isn't on the calendar.
The calendar belongs to the meeting.
“Let's Give Everyone a Few More Minutes”
This sentence radicalizes me.
We all received the same invitation.
We all possess clocks.
And yet somehow the reward for arriving on time is sitting there longer.
I would like this policy implemented everywhere else.
If I miss my flight, please hold the plane.
If I'm late to dinner, keep the restaurant closed.
If I forget my dentist appointment, I assume everyone in the waiting room will remain seated until I arrive.
No?
Interesting.
Apparently punctuality only becomes negotiable when 14 salaried adults are staring silently into webcams.
Corporate Language Is Just Sexting for People Who Love Spreadsheets
Nobody says what they mean.
Everything is suggestion.
Implication.
Tension.
“Do you have bandwidth?”
Depends.
What are you asking me to do?
“Let's take this offline.”
Finally, some privacy.
“I'd love to connect.”
Would you?
“Let's circle back.”
We've circled so many times I'm beginning to feel dizzy.
“Can you give that some attention?”
I thought I was.
“Let's touch base.”
Absolutely not.
And my personal favorite:
“Let's double-click on that.”
We are discussing employee retention, Greg.
Not opening a PDF.
“Quick Call?”
There are two words capable of raising an adult's heart rate faster than any fitness class.
Quick call?
No context.
No agenda.
No indication of whether we're discussing the printer or my continued employment.
Just a question mark and psychological warfare.
And somehow the call is never quick.
If someone says “quick call,” you can safely assume you're about to lose 37 minutes and possibly inherit a project.
Never Look Too Competent
This is perhaps the most important professional advice I can give.
You're sitting in a meeting.
Someone asks:
“Does anyone know how to do that?”
You know.
Of course you know.
You've done it seventeen times.
Say nothing.
Look thoughtful.
Perhaps take a sip of water.
Because the moment you say, “I can,” you've made a terrible mistake.
Now it's yours.
Competence is one of the only achievements in adulthood consistently rewarded with additional labor.
Do something badly?
Someone helps.
Do something beautifully?
Congratulations.
You'll be doing it forever.
The Meeting Face Is an Art Form
Video meetings have forced us to become actors.
There is a very specific face required.
Interested.
But not alarmingly interested.
Engaged.
But not so engaged that you're volunteered for something.
Occasional nod.
Small smile.
Thoughtful eyebrow movement.
You must communicate:
I am listening deeply.
while thinking:
If this person says “piggyback” one more time, I may fake an internet outage.
And then someone says your name.
“Kaitlyn, what do you think?”
Oh.
I've been discovered.
“Just to Piggyback Off That…”
No.
Get off.
The point was made.
It was clear.
It was concise.
It had a beautiful little life.
Then someone climbed onto its back and now we're 14 minutes deep into something that should have died peacefully.
Then another person wants to “add some color.”
There is enough color.
We're painting a mural.
The Meeting Before the Meeting Is Where I Lose Faith
There are meetings now to prepare for meetings.
We gather to discuss what we will discuss when we gather.
We decide who will say what.
We review the slides.
We align.
God, do we align.
Then we enter the actual meeting and perform our previously rehearsed spontaneity.
Sometimes there is a follow-up meeting afterward.
To discuss the meeting.
This is no longer employment.
This is community theater with dental insurance.
Please Stop Asking Me for a Fun Fact
There are no facts left.
You've taken them.
First job?
Used it.
Dream vacation?
Used it.
Favorite food?
Used it.
Three people I'd invite to dinner?
They're exhausted too.
At some point, someone asked which animal represented my leadership style and something inside me permanently changed.
My fun fact is that I have direct deposit.
That's why I'm here.
“We're Like a Family Here”
This sentence always makes me nervous.
Which kind?
Healthy family?
Estranged family?
Family where one person does all the work while everyone else asks what's for dinner?
Because specificity matters.
I don't need my workplace to be my family.
I have people for that.
I need my workplace to pay me correctly, respect my time and perhaps reconsider the 4:30 Friday meeting.
We can still like each other.
We can laugh.
We can get drinks.
We can know entirely too much about one another after a work trip.
But if we're family, I assume I'm now included in the will.
Please have Legal send the paperwork.
“You Get Five Minutes Back”
Nothing demonstrates corporate generosity quite like returning five minutes of the hour you took from me.
“You get five minutes back!”
Back?
Those minutes were mine.
You didn't create them.
This isn't a bonus.
It's a refund.
And now I have exactly enough time to use the bathroom before joining another meeting where someone will ask whether everyone can see their screen.
Yes. We Can See Your Screen.
Every presentation begins with the ritual.
“Can everyone see my screen?”
Yes.
Unfortunately.
Then the wrong window appears.
An inbox.
A desktop containing 68 files named things like FINAL_v2_FINAL_USETHISONE.
A Teams conversation disappears with suspicious speed.
Then the PowerPoint arrives.
Forty-three slides.
Fifteen minutes remaining.
Someone says:
“I'll go through these pretty quickly.”
They will not.
The Cruelest Part? Some Meetings Are Actually Good.
I hate admitting this.
A good meeting can be fantastic.
Five people.
Twenty minutes.
Actual problem.
Actual discussion.
Actual decision.
Nobody reads a slide aloud as though the rest of us recently lost the ability to read.
Nobody invites 23 people “for visibility.”
Nobody spends ten minutes providing context to people who don't need to be there.
You solve the thing.
Then—and this part is important—
you leave.
It's almost erotic.
Maybe We're Not Overworked. Maybe We're Over-Met.
We talk constantly about productivity.
Time management.
Efficiency.
Prioritization.
Doing more with less.
Meanwhile, everyone's calendar looks like someone lost a game of Tetris.
Eight meetings.
No space.
Lunch apparently canceled indefinitely.
Then 5:00 arrives and everyone finally has time to do the work they've spent eight hours discussing.
And somehow we call this time management.
Maybe we're not terrible at getting things done.
Maybe we're simply spending the best hours of the day explaining to one another what we're eventually going to get done.
Before You Send the Invite
Ask yourself one thing:
Do these people actually need to talk?
If yes, wonderful.
Invite them.
Have an agenda.
Make a decision.
End early.
Become a legend.
If no?
Send the email.
Send the Teams message.
Update the document.
Release everyone back into society.
Because somewhere right now, a perfectly competent adult is nodding thoughtfully while wondering if they could convincingly claim their Wi-Fi went out.
Someone else is “adding color” to a point that was perfectly beige.
And another person just heard:
“Before everyone jumps, one last thing…”
It's 4:59.
There is always one last thing.
As for me?
I've survived another meeting.
I've acquired three action items.
I've been given five minutes back.
We've agreed to circle back.
And somehow, despite being together for an hour, no one is entirely sure what we decided.
But don't worry.
There's already another invite on my calendar.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
If the meeting ends by scheduling another meeting, isn't that less of a meeting—and more of a threat?
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