The Gospel of Busy
It starts with a notification: “You have a meeting in 15 minutes.” I am there too, staring at my calendar like it’s a bingo card for burnout. We call it time management, but it’s the most elaborate form of self-sabotage ever invented.
We’ve replaced free time with full schedules, and the only thing we’re managing is our misery. The rules are simple: every hour must be accounted for, every gap must be filled, and every “Let’s circle back” is a prayer to the gods of productivity. We behave as if the calendar is a sacred text, even though most of it is bullshit.
The Performance of Importance
Overbooked calendars aren’t about getting things done; they’re about being seen getting things done. The fitness guy doesn’t just work out; he schedules it between two Zoom calls. The entrepreneur doesn’t just have meetings; she posts a screenshot of her “crazy day.” The “authentic” worker doesn’t just take a break; he blocks it off as “strategic downtime.” The problem isn’t the schedule; it’s the theater. We’re all auditioning for a role in a play no one wants to watch.
My favorite genre is performative busyness. Today’s episode: someone brags about having “back-to-back meetings,” as if exhaustion is a badge of honor. They’ll post a thread about “hustling,” conveniently leaving out the part where half the calls could’ve been emails. The busyness is real, but the productivity is imaginary. It’s the human equivalent of spinning in circles and calling it progress.
The Narcissism of No Time
Every calendar is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re important. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $49.99 time-blocking app might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You’re falling behind,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we’re fine as we are. We schedule to feel complete, but the feeling expires faster than the coffee.
The joke is that we’re not managing time; we’re performing it. The bio changes from “person” to “busy professional” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a thread about “time hacks.” We think this is efficiency, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Time converts to stress at a rate of roughly one meeting per existential crisis. Side effects include anxiety, insomnia, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking calendar invite.
The Panic of the Empty Slot
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums, yet we panic harder when the calendar looks empty. No meetings? Suddenly we’re philosophers considering the void. The day begins, and grown adults stare at their unbooked hours like they’re meeting God. We’re not lazy; we’re terrified. Without the busyness, we might have to think about the life we’re scheduling.
Calendars are anesthesia. They numb the day’s bruises with infinite little blocks. Each meeting is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it productivity, but it feels like speed dating with our own relevance, and everyone is lying about their availability.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag the “lazy” for not being busy, then post about “self-care” while triple-booking our afternoons. We condemn hustle culture while sharing our “time management” playlists. We mock influencers while secretly envying their schedules. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the calendar and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have scheduled fake meetings to avoid real ones. I have pretended to “optimize my time” while secretly procrastinating. I have mistaken busyness for meaning. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the schedule slightly worse than manageable, and people will chase the next hit. Serve guilt next to busyness so users oscillate between shame and stress, two emotions that never log off. Hide the free time behind endless tasks; the treadmill handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you scheduled smarter, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “simplify your life” by complicating it.
We supply the content for free. We even defend the system when critics ask questions. We call it “time management” while the house counts our hours like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should schedule this meeting instead of resting. Of course I should ask strangers if my calendar is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a time-blocking app. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your “busy day” post. The coworker you admire saw your “back-to-back meetings” story and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you post. There’s no such thing as a private schedule, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the busyness. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re doing it right. We could stop scheduling, but then who would notice? We could keep scheduling, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the schedulers, the hustlers, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled time. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.