There’s a certain kind of madness to the modern workplace – a circus of unspoken rules, baffling social rituals and performance art disguised as professionalism. This is the Workplace Freakshow!
Neurotypical people seem to have an invisible script they all follow—a dance of small talk, implied meanings, and facial expressions that might as well be hieroglyphics to me.
- “How was your weekend?”
Translation: Perform a two-minute social ritual before we’re allowed to discuss work.
My brain: Do they want the truth? A summary? A highlight reel? Should I mention the four hours I spent reorganising my bookshelves by colour? - “We should meet up for a coffee sometime!”
Translation: This is a polite noise with no actual intent behind it.
My brain: But when? Where? Do I need to schedule it? Why say it if you don’t mean it?
I’ve learned to mimic the steps, but it’s exhausting. Every conversation feels like improv comedy where everyone else knows the rules and I’m just hoping I don’t accidentally break the scene.
Open-plan offices are a special kind of torture. Fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps. Phones ringing at unpredictable intervals. Someone’s perfume smells like a chemical weapon. Meanwhile, Karen from Accounts is loudly discussing her nights out at the weekend as if we’re all trapped in her personal podcast.
I’ve developed coping mechanisms—noise-cancelling headphones, strategic seating near exits, an assortment of pens to click and my trusty nasal inhaler. But sometimes, it’s all too much, and I have to vanish into the bathroom for five minutes just to remember how to breathe.
Office culture runs on a secret code and no one gives you the decoder ring.
If someone says, “That’s an interesting approach,” they actually mean “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
When the boss asks, “Does anyone have any concerns?” the correct answer is SILENCE.
I’ve spent years reverse-engineering these rules like an anthropologist studying an alien tribe. Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I commit a terrible faux pas and spend the next week replaying it in my head at 3.00am.
Masking is the art of pretending to be normal – smiling when confused, nodding when overwhelmed, laughing at jokes I don’t understand. It’s a full-time job on top of my actual job. By Friday, I’m running on fumes, collapsing into my safe, quiet house where I can finally unmask and recover.
But here’s the thing: I’m not the freak in this show. The real absurdity is a system that expects everyone to think, act and communicate in exactly the same way – then act surprised when some of us don’t fit the mould.
Maybe the workplace should adapt instead of forcing us to contort ourselves into something we’re not. Maybe they’re the odd ones for believing small talk about the weather is a necessary life skill.
Either way, I’ll keep navigating this circus – one awkward interaction, one sensory overload, one carefully rehearsed script at a time.
Because if this is a freakshow, at least I’m the most interesting act in it.