Not a Miscommunication. A Message.

What happens when your boss can’t fire you—so he tries to erase you instead.

Why start the week in the middle of the weekend?

Call me naive, but aren’t week and end in there for a reason?

Sunday still has its own pace.
Endless tea. Drifting headlines.
Sometimes a story seed lands before I’ve even left my bed, and I’m up early chasing words before they evaporate.

But then I moved to the U.S.—and there it was:
Sunday at the top of the calendar.
Sunday bolded.
Sunday as Day One.

It felt like being asked to start a sentence mid-paragraph.

Every January, I go into my calendar settings and fix it.
Start the week on Monday.
Small act. Full meaning.

Small acts of defiance have always been my signature.

Not the smash-the-system kind.
The quiet ones.
The ones that tweak a setting, rearrange a frame, plant a flag where no one else is looking.

A calendar edit.
A turtleneck in a room full of suits.
A crawling desk toy with too much personality.

I came to the States on a three-to-five-year secondment.
That was thirty years ago.
I’ve been a U.S. citizen for fifteen.
But time doesn’t naturalize as easily as people do.

I brought my European terms with me—
five weeks of vacation,
two more days from a holiday bonus,
three extra days to fly home and remember who I was.

Thirty days total.
I used them all.

About five months in, I told the department secretary I’d be taking three weeks off.
She looked at me like I’d suggested closing the office for a séance.

“Three weeks?” she asked.
“Yes.”

Word spread.
At the coffee machine, a colleague stood waiting like it was an intervention.

“I hear you’re going on a long vacation.”
“Yep.”

He paused. Then, solemnly:
“I’ve never taken more than a week. In twenty years. Never even used all my vacation.”

He said it like confession.
But with pride.

Well, you’re an idiot then, I thought.

Here, overwork isn’t just a habit.
It’s a value system.
And apparently, using what you’ve earned is cause for suspicion.

When I was running my own department, I worked 10am to 7:30 or 8pm.
Not for show. It just suited me.

I was newly separated. No one waiting at home.
The far-too-big house echoed.
The company had rented it—cheaper than moving me somewhere smaller.

Mornings were for tea—copious amounts—and catching up on emails and listservs.
Afternoons through early evening: that’s when I hit my stride.

Then I heard it was “frowned upon.”

I checked the policy.
Flexitime was at the discretion of the business leader.
Technically, that was me.

I asked my boss where he stood.

He smiled.
Said he supported flexitime—
“As long as you’re in the office from 8am to 4pm.”

I didn’t laugh.
But it was close.

My office reflected my rhythm.
And my refusal.

It was big—too big, for some.
Wallace and Gromit. Talking Marvin the Martian.
A crawling Corporate Warrior that could clear a table like it was under siege.

People liked it.
The lightness. The difference.
Not everyone, of course.

My second boss—a short man with tall insecurities—didn’t care for it at all.
He styled himself a “man of the people.”
Said he didn’t need a big office.

Then, in the company’s sick-building shuffle, he landed in a cramped upstairs office—
one tiny window, no view, no space for meetings.

My group moved into the former C-suite.
Glass walls.
Sunlight you didn’t have to ask for.
Greenery just outside the window.

My office had a desk with a view, a full-size conference table, and a deluxe whiteboard.
His had… a desk.

He hated it.
Mr. “We’re all equals.”
Yeah. That guy.

He thought I wasn’t serious.
Didn’t like my goatee.
Didn’t like the toys.

Didn’t, I think, like that I wasn’t subservient enough.

Then came the “brainstorm.”

I’d just joined his org chart.
He offered a few ideas, then said:
“I know I’m not the only one with good ones.”

Everyone stayed silent.
They knew better.

I didn’t.
I offered something real.
Heads nodded.
I felt the shift in the room.
And in him.

After that: more check-ins.
Less warmth.
The calendar became a leash.

Then came the bonus meeting.

Because I was an international assignee, I had two bosses—
him, and a symbolic link to Europe: a pen-pusher I’d met once who had no idea what I did.

He handed me a sheet.
Bonus calculation.

Fifteen thousand dollars short.

He said he couldn’t “fairly assess” my performance after six months.
So: average.

I’d only ever received Exceeds Expectations.

The sheet didn’t show a number. Just a percentage.
He flipped to a decoder chart.
Traced the grid like he was unveiling my fate.

Then—finally—told me the number.
Like it was a gift.

I suggested he ask my former manager.
Or my dotted-line contact.
He said his hands were tied.
Said it with a smile.

Then—casually—he suggested I go “local.”
Meaning: switch to being a U.S. employee.
Higher base pay, sure—
but no protections, no perks, no safety net.

If he’d brought it up a month earlier, I might’ve gotten the full bonus.
Now? That door was closed.

I asked what I would’ve gotten.
He flipped to the table.
“Fifteen thousand more,” he said.

“Do you really think this is the right moment for that conversation?”

He froze.
Speechless.
I left.

Then came the meeting with the corporate VP.

I was told my boss would present our overall strategy and projections.
That’s it.

Then I saw the agenda.
Each business leader would present their plan.

My name wasn’t on it.

I was halfway into improv mode when he introduced someone else to speak on my behalf—
a man who’d never worked with my team.
(He later apologized—said he was just doing what he was told.)

The deck was full of buzzwords and fog.
The VP nodded. Smiled. Left.

In the corridor, my boss was basking.
He’d been patted on the head.
He’d made his point.

I asked if we could talk.
He said sure.

His office was opposite the meeting room.
As he sat, he gestured toward the door.

“You can leave it open.”

I closed it.
“Probably best if we don’t.”

I told him what he’d done.
That he’d excluded me.
Substituted someone else.
Tried to humiliate me in front of his boss and mine.

He tried to deflect.
I didn’t let him.

I said what I came to say.
Then I left.

Three days later, he came to my office.

“You’ve got six months to find something else,” he said.
“I’ll help. Write the glowing reference.”

Then he paused.

“I want you out. If you don’t find something—
I’ll find a way to get you out.”

The gloves were off.
But I’d already seen the hands.

Every January, I fix the calendar.
Start the week on Monday.

Still.

I keep the toys.
I take the vacation.
I lead in ways that would’ve made his jaw tighten.

Because presence isn’t frivolous.
Conformity isn’t competence.
And sometimes the smallest figure crawling across the desk
is the most honest voice in the room.

I walked out of his office unbroken.
And when the next Monday came,
I opened the blinds,
poured the tea,
and started my week—
as always—
on my own terms.