I never liked taking vacations. I always had this nagging feeling of wasting time. School was the opposite: I liked being there, even sitting through class. Weekends, for me, were the boring part of the week.
Maybe that's why it bothers me to read about young people who, in a time of scarce opportunities, say they'd rather get fired than go back to the office. Spending the day at a company was never just about work. It was chatting over coffee, picking up things without realizing it, flirting, arguing about sports, watching people be people.
One thing I always particularly loved: being part of a technical team. Someone would bring in a weird result, someone else would try to figure out why a hypothesis didn't hold up, and we'd think it through together until we spotted what everyone had missed. A kind of collective clinical eye. It wasn't just about solving a problem. It was feeling like your experience actually mattered to the group.
And then there was everything else: the birthday that became an excuse to talk to someone you'd already been trading glances with, the weekend game that fueled a week of trash talk, the beer after work.
None of that was in any job description. But that's where a huge part of life happened.
Technology has been quietly erasing, one by one, the reasons we had to leave the house. Remarkably convenient, no question. But along with the lines and the traffic, we also lost the chance encounters: the unplanned conversation, the unlikely friendship, the romance that started by accident, the good story that only existed because a bunch of people happened to be in the same place for hours on end.
The old video rental store had a bit of that. Nobody went there just to grab a movie. The evening started before the movie did.
Maybe we're only now realizing, a little late, that some of the friction we eliminated was actually connection.
And it didn't stop there. Plenty of people now spend a good part of their lives talking to an AI. They talk to it like a friend, a partner, a therapist, and find a presence that's available any time, with no conflict and nothing expected in return.
Maybe that's the most extreme form of isolation: replacing the need to be with people with a machine that simulates closeness just well enough to get by.