As usual, I spend my last couple minutes of lunch killing time by the smoothie machine. The system won’t clock me back in until I’ve had my full thirty minutes, but I always try to be back and ready to clock in a couple of minutes early, because I will get yelled at for being one minute late. I wish I could tell this to the people in line, who stare at my apparent idleness resentfully as I wait to press my finger to the square.

It’s silly to feel guilty over being a minute late, especially when between a third and half of my lunch break is spent navigating the kitchen, washing my hands, getting my purse, navigating the kitchen again, paying for my shift meal, navigating the kitchen again, putting my purse away, washing my hands, navigating the kitchen one last time, and waiting around to clock back in. Plus, I’m legitimately working my ass off at an in-the-weeds pace almost every single minute of my eight-hour shift.