Oliver Burkeman |
| All of our efforts to be more productive backfire – and only make us feel even busier and more stressed |
The eternal human struggle to live
meaningfully in the face of inevitable death entered its newest phase one
Monday in the summer of 2007, when employees of Google gathered to hear a talk
by a writer and self-avowed geek named Merlin Mann. Their biggest professional
problem was email, the digital blight that was colonising more and more of
their hours, squeezing out time for more important work, or for having a life.
And Mann, a rising star of the “personal productivity” movement, seemed like he
might have found the answer.
He called his system “Inbox Zero”,
and the basic idea was simple enough. Most of us get into bad habits with
email: we check our messages every few minutes, read them and feel vaguely
stressed about them, but take little or no action, so they pile up into an even
more stress-inducing heap. Instead, Mann advised his audience that day at
Google’s Silicon Valley campus, every time you visit your inbox, you should
systematically “process to zero”. Clarify the action each message requires –
a reply, an entry on your to-do list, or just filing it away. Perform that
action. Repeat until no emails remain. Then close your inbox, and get on with
living.
“It was really just a way of saying,
‘I suck at email, and here’s stuff that makes me suck less at it – you may find
it useful,’” Mann recalled later. But he had stumbled on a rich seam of
societal anxiety. Hundreds of thousands of people watched his talk online,
and Inbox Zero spawned countless blog posts,
along with books and apps. It was the Atkins diet for nerds: if you weren’t
doing it yourself, you almost certainly knew someone who was. Mann’s followers
triumphantly posted screenshots of their empty inboxes; the New Yorker,
discerning his increasingly cult-like following, described his system as “halfway between
Scientology and Zen”. (The New York Post called it bullshit.)
If all this fervour seems extreme –
Inbox Zero was just a set of technical instructions for handling email, after
all – this was because email had become far more than a technical problem. It
functioned as a kind of infinite to-do list, to which anyone on the planet
could add anything at will. For the “knowledge workers” of the digital economy,
it was both metaphor and delivery mechanism for the feeling that the pressure
of trying to complete an ever-increasing number of tasks, in a finite quantity
of time, was becoming impossible to bear.
Most of us have experienced this
creeping sense of being overwhelmed: the feeling not merely that our lives are
full of activity – that can be exhilarating – but that time is slipping out of
our control. And today, the personal productivity movement that Mann helped
launch – which promises to ease the pain with time-management advice tailored
to the era of smartphones and the internet – is flourishing as never before.
There are now thousands of apps in the “productivity” category of the Apple app
store, including software to simulate the ambient noise of working in a coffee
shop (this has been shown, in psychology experiments, to help people focus on
work), and a text editor that deletes the words you have written if you don’t
keep typing fast enough.
The quest for increased personal
productivity – for making the best possible use of your limited time – is a
dominant motif of our age. Two books on the topic by the New York Times
journalist Charles Duhigg have spent more than 60
weeks on the US bestseller lists between them, and the improbable titular
promise of another book, The Four Hour Work Week, has seduced a reported 1.35m
readers worldwide. There are blogs offering tips on productive dating, and on the
potential result of productive dating, productive parenting; signs have been
spotted in American hotels wishing visitors a “productive stay”. The archetypal
Silicon Valley startup, in the last few years, has been one that promises to
free up time and mental capacity by eliminating some irritating “friction” of
daily life – shopping or laundry, or even eating, in the case of the sludgy,
beige meal replacement Soylent – almost always for the purpose of doing more
work.
And yet the truth is that more often
than not, techniques designed to enhance one’s personal productivity seem to
exacerbate the very anxieties they were meant to allay. The better you get at
managing time, the less of it you feel that you have. Even when people did
successfully implement Inbox Zero, it didn’t reliably bring calm. Some
interpreted it to mean that every email deserved a reply, which only shackled
them more firmly to their inboxes. (“That drives me crazy,” Mann says.) Others
grew jumpy at the thought of any messages cluttering an inbox that was supposed
to stay pristine, and so ended up checking more frequently. My own dismaying
experience with Inbox Zero was that becoming hyper-efficient at processing
email meant I ended up getting more email: after all, it’s often the case that
replying to a message generates a reply to that reply, and so on. (By contrast,
negligent emailers often discover that forgetting to reply brings certain
advantages: people find alternative solutions to the problems they were nagging
you to solve, or the looming crisis they were emailing about never occurs.)
The allure of the doctrine of time
management is that, one day, everything might finally be under control. Yet
work in the modern economy is notable for its limitlessness. And if the stream
of incoming emails is endless, Inbox Zero can never bring liberation: you’re
still Sisyphus, rolling his boulder up that hill for all eternity – you’re just
rolling it slightly faster.
Two years after his Google talk, Mann
released a rambling and slightly manic online video in which he announced that
he had signed a contract for an Inbox Zero book. But his career as a
productivity guru had begun to stir an inner conflict. “I started making pretty
good money from it” – from speaking and consulting – “but I also started to
feel terrible,” he told me earlier this year. “This topic of productivity
induces the worst kind of procrastination, because it feels
like you’re doing work, but I was producing stuff that had the express purpose
of saying to people, ‘Look, come and see how to do your work, rather than doing
your work!’”
The book missed its publication date.
Fans started asking questions. Then, after two more years, Mann published a self-lacerating essay in which he
abruptly announced that he was jettisoning the project. It was the 3,000-word
howl of a man who had suddenly grasped the irony of missing morning after
morning with his three-year-old daughter because he was “typing bullshit that I
hoped would please my book editor” about how to use time well. He was guilty,
he declared, of “abandoning [my] priorities to write about priorities … I’ve
unintentionally ignored my own counsel to never let your hard work fuck up the
good things.” He hinted that he might write a different kind of book instead –
a book about stuff that really mattered – but it never appeared. “I’m mostly
out of the productivity racket these days,” Mann told me. “If you’re just using
efficiency to jam more and more stuff into your day … well, how would you ever
know that that’s working?” It’s understandable that we respond to the
ratcheting demands of modern life by trying to make ourselves more efficient.
But what if all this efficiency just makes things worse?
Given that the average lifespan consists
of only about 4,000 weeks, a certain amount of anxiety about using them well is
presumably inevitable: we’ve been granted the mental capacities to make
infinitely ambitious plans, yet almost no time at all to put them into
practice. The problem of how to manage time, accordingly, goes back at least to
the first century AD, when the Roman philosopher Seneca wrote On The Shortness
of Life. “This space that has been granted to us rushes by so speedily, and so
swiftly that all save a very few find life at an end just when they are getting
ready to live,” he said, chiding his fellow citizens for wasting their days on
pointless busyness, and “baking their bodies in the sun”.
Clearly, then, the challenge of how
to live our lives well is not a new one. Still, it is safe to say that the
citizens of first-century Rome didn’t experience the equivalent of today’s
productivity panic. (Seneca’s answer to the question of how to live had nothing
to do with becoming more productive: it was to give up the pursuit of wealth or
high office, and spend your days philosophising instead.) What is uniquely
modern about our fate is that we feel obliged to respond to the pressure of
time by making ourselves as efficient as possible – even when doing so fails to
bring the promised relief from stress.
It is either impossible, or at least
usually feels impossible, to cut down on work in exchange for more time
The time-pressure problem was always
supposed to get better as society advanced, not worse. In 1930, John Maynard
Keynes famously predicted that within a century, economic growth would mean
that we would be working no more than 15 hours per week – whereupon humanity
would face its greatest challenge: that of figuring out how to use all those
empty hours. Economists still argue about exactly why things turned out so
differently, but the simplest answer is “capitalism”. Keynes seems to have
assumed that we would naturally throttle down on work once our essential needs,
plus a few extra desires, were satisfied. Instead, we just keep finding new
things to need. Depending on your rung of the economic ladder, it’s either
impossible, or at least usually feels impossible, to cut down on work in
exchange for more time.
Arguably the first time management
guru – the progenitor of the notion that personal productivity might be the
answer to the problem of time pressure – was Frederick Winslow Taylor, an engineer
hired in 1898 by the Bethlehem Steel Works, in Pennsylvania, with a mandate to
improve the firm’s efficiency. “Staring out over an industrial yard that
covered several square miles of the Pennsylvania landscape, he watched as
labourers loaded 92lb [iron bars] on to rail cars,” writes Matthew Stewart, in
his book The Management Myth. “There were 80,000 tons’ worth of iron bars,
which were to be carted off as fast as possible to meet new demand sparked by
the Spanish-American war. Taylor narrowed his eyes: there was waste here, he
was certain.”
The Bethlehem workers, Taylor
calculated, were shifting about 12.5 tons of iron per man per day – but
predictably, when he offered a group of “large, powerful Hungarians” some extra
cash to work as fast as they could for an hour, he found that they performed
much better. Extrapolating to a full work day, and guesstimating time for
breaks, Taylor concluded, with his trademark blend of self-confidence and
woolly maths, that every man ought to be shifting 50 tons per day – four times
their usual amount.
Workers were naturally unhappy at
this transparent attempt to pay them the same money for more work, but Taylor
was not especially concerned with their happiness; their job was to implement,
not understand, his new philosophy of “scientific management”. “One of the very
first requirements for a man who is fit to handle pig iron,” wrote Taylor, is
“that he shall be so stupid and phlegmatic that he more nearly resembles in his
mental makeup the ox than any other type … he is so stupid that the word
‘percentage’ has no meaning for him.”
The idea of efficiency that Taylor
sought to impose on Bethlehem Steel was borrowed from the mechanical engineers
of the industrial revolution. It was a way of thinking about improving the
functioning of machines, now transferred to humans. And it caught on: Taylor
enjoyed a high-profile career as a lecturer on the topic, and by 1915,
according to the historian Jennifer Alexander, “the word ‘efficiency’ was
plastered everywhere – in headlines, advertisements, editorials, business
manuals, and church bulletins.” In the first decades of the 20th century, in a
Britain panicked by the rise of German power, the National Efficiency movement
united politicians on left and right. (“At the present time,” the Spectator
noted in 1902, “there is a universal outcry for efficiency in all the
departments of society, in all aspects of life.”)
It is not hard to grasp the appeal:
efficiency was the promise of doing what you already did, only better, more
cheaply, and in less time. What could be wrong with that? Unless you happened
to be on the sharp end of attempts to treat humans like machines – like the
workers of Bethlehem Steel – there wasn’t an obvious downside.
But as the century progressed,
something important changed: we all became Frederick Winslow Taylors, presiding
ruthlessly over our own lives. As the doctrine of efficiency grew entrenched –
as the ethos of the market spread to more and more aspects of society, and life
became more individualistic – we internalised it. In Taylor’s day, efficiency
had been primarily a way to persuade (or bully) other people to do more work in
the same amount of time; now it is a regimen that we impose on ourselves.
According to legend, Taylorism first
crossed the threshold into personal productivity when Charles Schwab, the
president of Bethlehem Steel, asked another consultant, a businessman named Ivy
Lee, to improve his executives’ efficiency as well. Lee advised those
white-collar workers to make nightly to-do lists, arranging tomorrow’s six most
important tasks by priority, then to start at the top of the list next morning,
working down. It’s a stretch to imagine that nobody had thought of this before.
But the story goes that when Lee told Schwab to test it for three months, then pay
him what he thought it was worth, the steel magnate wrote him a cheque worth
more than $400,000 in today’s money – and the time management industry was up
and running.
In
an era of insecure employment, we must constantly demonstrate our usefulness
through frenetic doing
Other gurus were to follow, writing
bestsellers that modified Lee’s basic technique to incorporate the setting of
long-term goals (the 1973 book How to Get Control of Your Time and Your Life,
by Alan Lakein, who boasted of having advised both IBM and Gloria Steinem, and
who inspired a young Bill Clinton) and spiritual values (The Seven Habits of
Highly Effective People, published in 1989 by the Mormon efficiency expert
Stephen Covey).
Time management promised a sense of
control in a world in which individuals – decreasingly supported by the social
bonds of religion or community – seemed to lack it. In an era of insecure
employment, we must constantly demonstrate our usefulness through frenetic
doing, and time management can give you a valuable edge. Indeed, if you are
among the growing ranks of the self-employed, as a freelancer or a worker in
the so-called gig economy, increased personal efficiency may be essential to your
survival. The only person who suffers financially if you indulge in “loafing” –
a workplace vice that Taylor saw as theft – is you.
Above all, time management promises
that a meaningful life might still be possible in this profit-driven
environment, as Melissa Gregg explains in Counterproductive, a forthcoming
history of the field. With the right techniques, the prophets of time
management all implied, you could fashion a fulfilling life while
simultaneously attending to the ever-increasing demands of your employer. This
promise “comes back and back, in force, whenever there’s an economic downturn”,
Gregg told me.
Illustration by Pete Gamlen
Especially at the higher-paid end of
the employment spectrum, time management whispers of the possibility of something
even more desirable: true peace of mind. “It is possible for a person to have
an overwhelming number of things to do and still function productively with a
clear head and a positive sense of relaxed control,” the contemporary king of
the productivity gurus, David Allen, declared in his 2001 bestseller, Getting
Things Done. “You can experience what the martial artists call
a ‘mind like water’, and top athletes refer to as ‘the zone’.”
As Gregg points out, it is
significant that “personal productivity” puts the burden of reconciling these
demands squarely on our shoulders as individuals. Time management gurus rarely
stop to ask whether the task of merely staying afloat in the modern economy –
holding down a job, paying the mortgage, being a good-enough parent –
really ought to require rendering ourselves inhumanly
efficient in the first place.
Besides, on closer inspection, even
the lesser promises of time management were not all they appeared to be. An
awkward truth about Taylor’s celebrated efficiency drives is that they were not
very successful: Bethlehem Steel fired him in 1901, having paid him vast sums
without any clearly detectable impact on its own profits. (One persistent
consequence of his schemes was that they seemed promising at first, but left
workers too exhausted to function consistently over the long term.)
Likewise, it remains the frequent
experience of those who try to follow the advice of personal productivity gurus
– I’m speaking from years of experience here – that a “mind like water” is far
from the guaranteed result. As with Inbox Zero, so with work in general: the
more efficient you get at ploughing through your tasks, the faster new tasks
seem to arrive. (“Work expands to fill the time available for its completion,”
as the British historian C Northcote Parkinson realised way back in 1955, when
he coined what would come to be known as Parkinson’s law.)
Then there’s the matter of
self-consciousness: virtually every time management expert’s first piece of
advice is to keep a detailed log of your time use, but doing so just heightens
your awareness of the minutes ticking by, then lost for ever. As for focusing
on your long-term goals: the more you do that, the more of your daily life you
spend feeling vaguely despondent that you have not yet achieved them. Should
you manage to achieve one, the satisfaction is strikingly brief – then it’s
time to set a new long-term goal. The supposed cure just makes the problem
worse.
There is a historical parallel for
all this: it’s exactly what happened when the spread of “labour-saving” devices
transformed the lives of housewives and domestic servants across Europe and
north America from the end of the 19th century. Technology now meant that
washing clothes no longer entailed a day bent over a mangle; a vacuum-cleaner
could render a carpet spotless in minutes.
The
2016 Time Matters conference was sparsely attended because it was August, and
lots of people were on holiday
Yet as the historian Ruth Cowan
demonstrates in her 1983 book More Work for Mother, the result, for much of the
20th century, was not an increase in leisure time among those charged with
doing the housework. Instead, as the efficiency of housework increased, so did
the standards of cleanliness and domestic order that society came to expect.
Now that the living-room carpet could be kept perfectly clean, it had to be;
now that clothes never needed to be grubby, grubbiness was all the more taboo.
These days, you can answer work emails in bed at midnight. So should that
message you got at 5.30pm really wait till morning for a reply?
One boiling weekend last summer, the
impassioned members of a campaign group named Take Back Your Time gathered in a
university lecture hall in Seattle, to further their longstanding mission of
“eliminating the epidemic of overwork” – and, in so doing, to explore what it
might mean to live a life that is not so focused on personal productivity. The
2016 Time Matters conference was a sparsely attended affair, in part because,
as the organisers conceded, it was August, and lots of people were on holiday,
and America’s most enthusiastically pro-relaxation organisation was hardly
going to complain about that. But it was also because, these days, being even
modestly anti-productivity – especially in the US – counts as a subversive
stance. It is not the kind of platform that lends itself to glitzy mega-events
with generous corporate sponsorship and effective marketing campaigns.
The conference-goers discussed
schemes for a four-day working week, for abolishing daylight savings time, for
holding elections at the weekend, and generally for making America more like
countries such as Italy and Denmark. (To be a critic of America’s work culture
is to constantly gaze longingly across the Atlantic, at semi-mythical versions
of Scandinavia and southern Europe.) But the members of Take Back Your Time
were calling for something more radical than merely more time off. They sought
to question our whole instrumental attitude towards time – the very idea that
“getting more done” ought to be our focus in the first place. “You keep hearing
people arguing that more time off might be good for the economy,” said John de
Graaf, the not-even-slightly-relaxed 70-year-old filmmaker who is the
organisation’s driving force. “But why should we have to justify life in
terms of the economy? It makes no sense!”
One of the sneakier pitfalls of an
efficiency-based attitude to time is that we start to feel pressured to use our
leisure time “productively”, too – an attitude which implies that enjoying
leisure for its own sake, which you might have assumed was the whole point of
leisure, is somehow not quite enough. And so we find ourselves, for example,
travelling to unfamiliar places not for the sheer experience of travel, but in
order to add to our mental storehouse of experiences, or to our Instagram
feeds. We go walking or running to improve our health, not for the pleasure of
movement; we approach the tasks of parenthood with a fixation on the successful
future adults we hope to create.
In his 1962 book The Decline of
Pleasure, the critic Walter Kerr noticed this shift in our experience of time:
“We are all of us compelled to read for profit, party for contracts, lunch for
contacts … and stay home for the weekend to rebuild the house.” Even rest and
recreation, in a culture preoccupied with efficiency, can only be understood as
valuable insofar as they are useful for some other purpose – usually,
recuperation, so as to enable more work. (Several conference guests mentioned
Arianna Huffington’s current crusade to encourage people to get more sleep; for
her, it seems, the main point of rest is to excel at the office.)
If all this increased efficiency
brings none of the benefits it was supposed to bring, what should we be doing
instead? At Take Back Your Time, the consensus was that personal lifestyle
changes would never suffice: reform would have to start with policies on
vacation, maternity leave and overtime. But in the meantime, we might try to
get more comfortable with not being as efficient as possible – with declining
certain opportunities, disappointing certain people, and letting certain tasks
go undone. Plenty of unpleasant chores are essential to survival. But others
are not – we have just been conditioned to assume that they are. It isn’t
compulsory to earn more money, achieve more goals, realise our potential on
every dimension, or fit more in. In a quiet moment in Seattle, Robert Levine, a
social psychologist from California, quoted the environmentalist Edward Abbey:
“Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.”
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Illustration by Pete Gamlen
Yet if the ethos of efficiency and
productivity risks prioritising the health of the economy over the happiness of
humans, it is also true that the sense of pressure it fosters is not much good
for business, either. This, it turns out, is a lesson business is not
especially keen to learn.
“After years of consulting with
Microsoft, I was suddenly persona non grata,” Tom DeMarco told me, with a note
of amusement in his voice. DeMarco is a minor legend in the world of software
engineering. He began his career at Bell Telephone Labs, birthplace of the
laser and transistor, and later became an expert in managing complex software
projects, a field notorious for spiralling costs, missed deadlines, and
clashing egos. But then, in the 1980s, he committed heresy: he started arguing
that ramping up the time pressure on your employees was a terrible way to drive
such projects forward. What was needed, he had come to realise, was not an
increased focus on using time efficiently. It was the opposite: more slack.
Thinking
about time encourages clockwatching, which has been repeatedly shown to
undermine the quality of work
“The best companies I visited, all
through the years, were never very hurried,” DeMarco said. “Maybe they used
pressure from time to time, as a sort of amusing side-effect. But it was never
a constant. Because you don’t get creativity for free. You need people
to be able to sit back, put their feet up, and think.” Manual work can be
speeded up, at least to a certain extent, by increasing the time pressure on
workers. But good ideas do not emerge more rapidly when people feel under the
gun – if anything, the good ideas dry up.
Part of the problem is simply that
thinking about time encourages clockwatching, which has been repeatedly shown
in studies to undermine the quality of work. In one representative experiment
from 2008, US researchers asked people to complete the Iowa gambling task, a
venerable decision-making test that involves selecting playing cards in order
to win a modest amount of cash. All participants were given the same time in
which to complete the task – but some were told that time would probably be
sufficient, while others were warned it would be tight. Contrary to an
intuition cherished especially among journalists – that the pressure of
deadlines is what forces them to produce high-quality work – the second group
performed far less well. The mere awareness of their limited time triggered
anxious emotions that got in the way of performance.
But worse perils await. DeMarco
points out that any increase in efficiency, in an organisation or an individual
life, necessitates a trade-off: you get rid of unused expanses of time, but you
also get rid of the benefits of that extra time. A visit to your family doctor
provides an obvious example. The more efficiently they manage their time, the
fuller their schedule will be – and the more likely it is that you will be kept
sitting in the waiting room when an earlier appointment overruns. (That’s all a
queue is, after all: the cost of someone else’s efficiency, being shouldered by
you.) In the accident and emergency department, by contrast, remaining
“inefficient” in this sense is a matter of life and death. If there is an
exclusive focus on using the staff’s time as efficiently as possible, the
result will be a department too busy to accommodate unpredictable arrivals,
which are the whole reason it exists.
A similar problem afflicts any
corporate cost-cutting exercise that focuses on maximising employees’
efficiency: the more of their hours that are put to productive use, the less
available they will be to respond, on the spur of the moment, to critical new
demands. For that kind of responsiveness, idle time must be built into the
system.
“An organisation that can accelerate
but not change direction is like a car that can speed up but not steer,”
DeMarco writes. “In the short run, it makes lots of progress in whatever
direction it happened to be going. In the long run, it’s just another road
wreck.” He often uses the analogy of those sliding number puzzles, in which you
move eight tiles around a nine-tile grid, until all the digits are in order. To
use the available space more efficiently, you could always add a ninth tile to
the empty square. You just wouldn’t be able to solve the puzzle any more. If
that jammed and unsolvable puzzle feels like an appropriate metaphor for your
life, it’s hard to see how improving your personal efficiency – trying to force
yet more tiles on to the grid – is going to be much help.
At the very bottom of our anxious urge
to manage time better – the urge driving Frederick Winslow Taylor, Merlin Mann,
me and perhaps you – it’s not hard to discern a familiar motive: the fear of
death. As the philosopher Thomas Nagel has put it, on any meaningful timescale
other than human life itself – that of the planet, say, or the cosmos – “we
will all be dead any minute”. No wonder we are so drawn to the problem of how
to make better use of our days: if we could solve it, we could avoid the
feeling, in Seneca’s words, of finding life at an end just when we were getting
ready to live. To die with the sense of nothing left undone: it’s nothing less
than the promise of immortality by other means.
But the modern zeal for personal
productivity, rooted in Taylor’s philosophy of efficiency, takes things several
significant steps further. If only we could find the right techniques and apply
enough self-discipline, it suggests, we could know that we were fitting
everything important in, and could feel happy at last. It is up to us – indeed,
it is our obligation – to maximise our productivity. This is a convenient
ideology from the point of view of those who stand to profit from our working
harder, and our increased capacity for consumer spending. But it also functions
as a form of psychological avoidance. The more you can convince yourself that
you need never make difficult choices – because there will be enough time for
everything – the less you will feel obliged to ask yourself whether the life
you are choosing is the right one.
Personal productivity presents itself
as an antidote to busyness when it might better be understood as yet another
form of busyness. And as such, it serves the same psychological role that
busyness has always served: to keep us sufficiently distracted that we don’t
have to ask ourselves potentially terrifying questions about how we are
spending our days. “How we labour at our daily work more ardently and
thoughtlessly than is necessary to sustain our life because it is even more
necessary not to have leisure to stop and think,” wrote Friedrich Nietzsche, in
what reads like a foreshadowing of our present circumstances. “Haste is
universal because everyone is in flight from himself.”
You can seek to impose order on your
inbox all you like – but eventually you’ll need to confront the fact that the
deluge of messages, and the urge you feel to get them all dealt with, aren’t
really about technology. They’re manifestations of larger, more personal
dilemmas. Which paths will you pursue, and which will you abandon? Which
relationships will you prioritise, during your shockingly limited lifespan, and
who will you resign yourself to disappointing? What matters?
For Merlin Mann, consciously
confronting these questions was a matter of realising that people would always
be making more claims on his time – worthy claims, too, for the most part –
than it would be possible for him to meet. And that even the best, most
efficient system for managing the emails they sent him was never going to
provide a solution to that. “Eventually, I realised something,” he told me.
“Email is not a technical problem. It’s a people problem. And you can’t fix
people.”
Credit/Source: https://www.theguardian.com
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