Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Setting boundaries is complicated. There are seriously invasive practices colleagues and supervisors think are ok. I’ve gotten work communications vía WhatsApp on Wednesday at 10:30 pm and Sunday at 1:30 pm from an Entity for which these are clearly not office hours.  Depending on the work, or the project, there are justifications for communicating at odd times. There are time-sensitive projects and services, and people whose lives depend on an answer. I have taken on a new project with said Entity, starting Monday. It is a part-time editor job. So you see, my job does not bear the weight of life and death. The feeling of invasion is real. Even if I chose to ignore the message, it is there, the looming reminder I need to tell someone about work hours and official communication channels. Today on Musing Interruptus: That is too invasive, thank you anyway.
I can immediately feel my personal time and space invaded by the suggestion I should provide this Entity attention outside office hours. Taking attention away from my family and decompression time. My heart accelerated and I felt uneasy. This is cortisol pouring onto my organs, degrading them. My whole body was reacting to this. Both of the cases I mentioned would have easily been resolved over the phone or with an email, during office hours, the office hours stipulated in my contract. There seemed to be no logical reason to be reading work-related WhatsApp messages when I was in my bed, looking at my phone, reading Tweets, looking at Insta Reels, catching up on my reading. Relaxing and preparing myself for rest and the next day’s grind. For all intent and purposes, this is naked time. I don’t work naked. No offense to people who work naked. I just don’t. Do you know when I get to be naked? When I’m off the clock. And I do personal things, like wash the dishes, naked, read in the sun, again, naked. I’m relaxing, naked. I don’t know if you enjoy wearing clothing all the time. But I definitely do not need a cross-over between my naked time and work time. I have the right to disconnect. Furthermore, the entity I work for doesn’t remotely pay what I would consider a competitive salary, to work naked on a Sunday afternoon.
So, as I write this, I’ve put my metaphorical nakedness away and put my metaphorical clothes back on, sufficiently stressed, feeling that my Sunday brain, relaxed and happy is very quickly reentering Monday’s atmosphere, and I can really feel the burn. My downtime has been cut short. Fuck, even my musings have been interrupted, and not in the funny way that could make for a good story. I keep feeling, this arrangement isn’t going to fly. I hate having to set boundaries with an entity when I think people should have enough common sense to look at a watch or a calendar and think about using the official channels. I didn’t answer the message today. I won’t. I have things to do, with my personal time. However, I’m bothered, uncomfortable, and yes, invaded. I have to figure out how to separate those feelings from my home feelings. It is not ok. It won’t be ok. We should not put up with that. We are not feelingless cogs in a Chaplin movie, and these are postmodern times. Rights can be easily forgotten when justified by the relentless adage, you should be grateful you have a job. Followed by kowtowing, scurrying out the door, never turning your back on the entity. Don’t forget, it will stab you, wound you. This particular entity has done that already. Since then, I’ve worked with very professional people in another area. It is, however, the same entity. Continue Reading

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