Work, Dance, Love

There’s an oft-misattributed motto, “Work like you don’t need the money. Dance like no one is watching. And love like you’ve never been hurt.”

I’ve updated it for more modern times.

Work, like no one is watching.

In a reality where patronizing corporate overreach has woven itself into the fabric of everyday life, what was once seen as intrusive is now the norm.

Fitness trackers, in the guise of presents, are handed out as part of corporate mandates tied to health insurance costs. They serve as both a carrot and a stick, dictating lifestyle choices under the guise of “wellness”. The very act of accessing basic health care has become entwined with employment, a dependency that leaves little room for autonomy.

Lunch hours, once a respite, are commandeered by ‘brown-bag lunches,’ where free time is consumed under the banner of productivity and team cohesion. The expectation of constant availability stretches the workday’s boundaries, with texts and calls piercing any semblance of personal time, morning or night.

The shift towards remote work, which promised liberation from the office’s confines, has instead bred managerial paranoia. Incompetent in discerning productivity through meaningful measures—such as the quality and quantity of work produced—managers grasp at digital straws. They turn to keystroke monitoring and high-tech surveillance, not as tools of empowerment, but as crutches for their own shortcomings.

This is the dawn of a new industry, one that specializes in vigilance over workers, extending its reach into the once-private enclave of the home. Voice-to-text, e-mail monitoring, and the relentless hum of monitoring technology casts a long shadow over every task, with the modern worker forced to adopt a mask of ignorance, toiling as if unseen, when in reality, every action is noted, every deviation logged.

As technology’s eye grows ever more pervasive, monitoring each movement with an unblinking gaze, individuals find themselves playing a game of pretense. The collective response to this Orwellian turn is one of feigned ignorance, a silent agreement to act as though the walls do not have ears and the screens do not have eyes. It’s a coping mechanism for survival in a time when to acknowledge the full extent of one’s surveillance would be to acknowledge a loss too great—a world where privacy is an illusion, and trust is a currency devalued and defunct.

Dance, like you’ve never been hurt.

Dance, as though your two left feet were a secret well-kept, hidden from the critical eyes that could unravel your carefully curated facade for their own benefit. In a world where every misstep is a potential viral spectacle, to dance with abandon is to teeter on the brink of professional disaster and personal mortification. Where the dance floor becomes a battlefield, and rhythm is an elusive ally, your career and dignity hinge on the mercy of a beat you can’t seem to grasp. So, you move with a caution born of the knowledge that in this hyper-connected world, one wrong move doesn’t just mean a bruised shin but a bruised reputation, where the last vestige of self-respect clings precariously to the notion that some dances are better left un-danced.

Love, like you don’t need the money.

We pretend we don’t know what you are while we negotiate a price. Let’s call it, “salary.”