(Management’s Still Full of Crap)

Winter’s creeping in again…snow, ice, and the annual reminder that your life is apparently worth less than daily production numbers. Because nothing says “team player” like white-knuckling the steering wheel through a blizzard just to get yelled at for being 4 minutes late. Doesn’t matter if the roads are a death trap or the parking lot looks like a scene from Ice Road Truckers, quota waits for no one.

And spoiler alert: upper management sure as hell isn’t coming in. Nope. They’re “working remotely,” which we all know means answering emails in their sweatpants while you’re out here risking a concussion just trying to get to the time clock.

So you make it in—barely alive and slightly dead inside—only to be greeted by That One Manager™. The one that gets off on micro-managing like it’s a fetish. They hover around your station like a toddler on a sugar high, touching everything, asking a million questions a minute, moving tools and parts like they’re playing a sadistic version of Tetris. You had things in order? Not anymore. But don’t worry, they’ll leave for ten minutes, then come back and ask, “How many do you have at each step?” “What’s your 8-hour output estimate?” “Did you check for magical productivity pixie dust under the table?”

You try to throw out a sarcastic joke to make them back off but with a smile, of course. Can’t have them running to HR crying that you hurt their feelings. God forbid Little Johnny gets offended by your survival instincts.

Lunchtime rolls around, and you head out to the parking lot just to see what Mother Nature’s been cooking. Surprise! Your car is now a portable igloo. Windshield wipers frozen solid. So you start it up, defrost, and scrape the thing down—for the second time today—just to sit inside a semi-warm car and inhale your 8-hour-old sandwich like a sad mechanic on the run. Half your lunch is gone just walking to and from the car. The rest of it is spent wondering if it’s too late to call in sick retroactively.

Then it’s back inside for five more hours of babysitting and the line lead breathing down your neck like a three-year-old with separation anxiety. They’ve messed up your setup, again, looking for a mythical “extra work order” like they’re on a scavenger hunt for productivity gold. You play nice. You smile. You die a little more inside.

Finally…finally…you hit quota, clean up, and make a break for the door like a convict on parole. But oh wait, plot twist: your car is covered again. And this time, the discount snow removal crew shoved half the parking lot’s snow next to your door. So now you’ve got a personal skating rink just to clean your car off for the third damn time.

After another 30 minutes of defrosting and scraping, you’re ready to leave. The sun’s gone down, the roads are now black ice roulette, and you just pray your car doesn’t slide into a ditch on the way home.

But you make it. You shovel your driveway in the dark like a coal miner, then crawl inside knowing tomorrow’s forecast looks exactly the same.

All this when you could’ve just said, “Screw it,” used a sick day, and let the snow win.

But hey…at least you’re a team player. Right?