When my boss rants for 10 minutes about how there's something wrong with my generation, at least in this country, I want to ask how he'd survive if his wife had a job. And remind him that the parable of hard work that he holds up to me has moved half-a-country away while his wife postpones her PhD to look after their 4-month-old. When he tells me he will no longer accept american students, because the foreigners that visit here work so much harder, I wanted to mention that when I was a visiting student in another lab I worked 20-hour-days and slept on the floor of the lab. By those standards, your foregin students are slackers.
I also want to mention that every day my husband comes home telling me about the 30-year-old that died today. Unexpectedly, or perhaps expectantly, though only expected for the last 6 months. Yes, sir, you're lucky you didn't die at 30. Or 40. I'm lucky I didn't die at 20. Neither of us, yet. But it could happen any day, and I don't want to miss the opportunity to kiss my child good night for a few extra data points in the lab.
But instead I smiled and nodded empathetically. And secretly wanted to stay late to collect a few more data points.