“I’d relax, I’d sit on my ass all day, I would do nothing.”

A bunch of us heard Peter Gibbons announce that in Office Space and half-howled in laughter, while nodding. Yes. That’s what I want. Work sucks. I’m 1 or 3 or 5 years into my first shitty office job. And this is life? No, I want to do nothing, like Peter.

For many of us, this wish was granted, if 20 years later.

And SPOILER alert. What I mean is, everything I’m about to lament makes me/us spoiled, and ungrateful, and entitled. And nonetheless, in true pain.

There is a new rash of, oh say, 34- to 55-year-old men and women, some of whom hold high positions, who work <10 hours a week, secretly, and hate it.

I’m not saying they do nothing nothing, but about as close to nothing as many of us would dare to get, while still expecting a paycheck. Something happened when all us Peter Gibbonses grew into our 30’s and 40’s: our jobs got boring because we’re doing nothing.

I’m writing this out loud, because like many a shameful truth, it’s not something we guys and gals can say to each other. Maybe it’s the virus and isolation that’s brought forth trickles of honesty around how little some of us work, but it’s something I suspected even years before, as I ascended the ranks of corporations, hung out with other executives, and began to wonder at the end of the day — often — what the hell did I even do today?

I’m not alone, dear reader, and perhaps I can even count you as an aged Peter with me:

• You have a job that’s hard to describe (to others, to yourself).
• You make more than you deserve. Most days are easy.
• Writing and reading email is your main product.
• You want more.

Not more money, so much. Not title, or power even. It’s purpose, yes. But more simply put, it’s some sort of product of your existence, of your day, that you can point to. There, that’s what I did today.

As I grew older, and my friends and colleagues did along with me, we slowly began to share with one another, ever so carefully, that we did way less each week than we should. 10 hours of real work. Maybe? Some less, some more. Much of those hours is merely existing at meetings, chiming in on an email thread, or traveling for what feels like the very sake of showing motion.

But a few, then dozens, of successful friends divulged there shared doldrum with me.

Just how excruciating, how debilitating it’s become to live a week like this…well, that’s not something that’s breached the dam of sharing yet. So let me take a crack at it.

A day of doing a combined 60 minutes of real work — that sucks. I open a calendar in the morning to see a 30-minute at 10:00 and another at 2:30. White space everywhere. First instinct is relief, and my mind goes to all the ways in which I’ll fill that time void. A few slides with no deadline, I’ll work on those. I’ll set up 1-on-1’s with some junior folks, flesh out that big analytics idea from the backburner.

Or…wait, no I’ll work out, then groceries, have to take the car in. I’ll get so much personal stuff done. Maybe a quick episode of Always Sunny at lunch, a little Metroid?

By 5:00, I rarely have a feeling of true exhaustion, of earned rest. I got here, I kept my job, did a little work. Also, didn’t I manage to get some checklist items done? The bread, waiting on hold with insurance, activating my new bank card.

Am I tired? When I sit down after bedtime to re-watch Nip/Tuck, does my mind actually need a break? Do I deserve one?

I look at tomorrow’s calendar. Completely empty. Tomorrow, then. I’ll read that old issue of The Economist in the morning, and finish that deck, setup meetings with important people. I’ll earn the evening’s rest.

“Well you don’t need a million dollars to do nothing, man. Just take a look at my cousin, he’s broke, don’t do shit.”

-Lawrence’s Response to Peter