Does anyone else find themselves doing math while other people are talking? Like, involuntary mental spreadsheets. I'm 21 and working this front desk job in a corporate park that smells like floor wax and expensive perfume. It’s that suburban thing where everyone drives a clean SUV and pretends they aren't one bad week away from a crisis. I’ve noticed a specific physical reaction when my coworkers start talking about their lives—my heart rate stays flat, but my brain starts running numbers. It's a detached sort of observation, like I'm watching a documentary about a different species. Today it was my supervisor, Diane. She was leaning against my desk, showing me photos of Amalfi. The blue water, the $400-a-night villas, the "authentic" pasta. She kept saying how I "just have to go" while I'm young and don't have responsibilities. I did the polite thing. I tilted my head about fifteen degrees, maintained eye contact for three-second intervals, and made the appropriate "wow" noises. Externally, I was a perfectly functioning administrative assistant. Internally, I was cataloging the cost of her flight against my car insurance and the $50 late fee on my electric bill. It’s a very logical system. Her ten-day trip equals approximately seven and a half months of my life. Seven months of waking up at 6 AM, driving thirty minutes through suburban sprawl, and sitting in this swivel chair. I was staring at a photo of her drinking wine on a balcony and realized I was actually calculating the caloric value of my sleep vs. the cost of a grocery store sandwich. If I skip lunch for three days, I can afford the gas to get to my Friday night class without the low-fuel light coming on. It’s objectively hilarious when you think about it. I’m basically a human calculator with a customer service voice. The weirdest part is how easy it is to lie. My mom asks how the job is going and I tell her it’s great, very professional, good for the resume. In this neighborhood, you don't talk about being broke. You talk about "the market" or "the commute." You don't admit that you're sitting in your bedroom at 2 AM, looking at a spreadsheet of every dollar you've spent since Tuesday, wondering if you can sell enough old clothes to make rent by the first. I’m currently looking at a pile of sweaters and assigning them a "days of survival" value. It's a fun game—the dark comedy of the suburbs. I feel... lighter now that I’ve typed this out, which is a fascinating neurological response to an unchanged financial situation. The panic is still there, but it’s more like a background hum. A low-frequency vibration. I’m just curious if anyone else spends their shift measuring their life in someone else's vacation days? Or if I've just finally hit the point where my brain has completely detached from the social part of the conversation to focus on the survival part. Anyway, the sun is going to come up soon and I have to go back and hear about the "life-changing" gelato. CAPITAL FUN... can't wait to see the receipts.