Sensor-free toilets and 3-ply toilet paper: Advantage home office

I don’t think I put on deodorant the other day. I’m two days behind on my shaving schedule, and my nose hairs are becoming unruly. 

My hair is starting to covid– er, I mean cover my ears. I’ve so far resisted the spousal haircut, although I'm tempted to try. I’ve got time for bald spots to regrow. 

Sometimes I wear jeans to work, but it’s rare. Normally pajama pants suffice. I’m alternating between a sweatshirt with holes in the armpits and one with a ripped, drooping collar. I’ve tried on old t-shirts as well, some that have been neglected for years. 

Some experts have suggested dressing up every day when working from home, but I fail to see the point. These pandemics (hopefully) only come around every hundred years. Every day I can roll straight out of bed and into my office chair, I'll take it. Unless your self-esteem is built upon wearing a suit every day, I suggest sticking to the sweatpants – or better yet, shorts. You might even want to take them off every once in a while, although this holds risks during video conferences. 

Working from home has never been encouraged in my workplace, so I’ve never tried. Even when the pandemic began, they were hesitant to release us. Perhaps they feared we would succumb to daytime television, with its lineup of soaps and Oprah spinoffs (can anything really replace Oprah?)

I’ve never worked from home, so I’m surprised how much more productive I’ve become. I attribute this to the absence of cubicles.

 With four co-workers within three metres of you, it can be hard to maintain focus. Every sneeze, cough, and drop of sweat forming on a colleague’s feverish forehead becomes an unwanted interruption, particularly during a pandemic. There are also other non-pandemic-related issues like people talking on speakerphone, eating too loud, and clipping their nails (and no, it’s not me). 

There are other benefits to working from home, like having access to my own personal bathroom. Searching for that elusive free stall in our seven-floor building is a routine way of life at my work. Toilets with hypersensitive flush sensors are also commonplace (third floor in particular). I fail to see the enjoyment of sitting for lengthy periods of time on a toilet that flushes every thirty seconds, yet some of my male colleagues seem to find their solace there. Then there’s the one-ply toilet paper, the stuff that pretty much falls apart in your hand. Yes, it’s rough. And pity the man who has to be the first one to open a roll, because short of ripping it open with your fingernails, there’s no other way in.  

Access to my own personal kitchen is also an advantage. The work place kitchen, as we all know, can be a bastion of foul smells and disease. One must avoid opening the fridge as much as possible (who knows what lurks in its deepest recesses) and take caution when using the microwave (was that fish you were reheating?) Our cubicles sit so close to the kitchen that every noon hour a unique aroma wafts into our workspace: a rich blend of TV dinner chemicals and lively leftovers. 

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my workplace. The more I think about it, our cubicle farm is kind of like a dormitory, but for adults. So long as you get along with your colleagues, which I do, it can be quite enjoyable. 

In one or two years, I look forward to working there again. 

We're racing through Star Trek at warp 9

With more time on our hands, we’ve fast-tracked our Star Trek plan. 

What would normally take us two years to get through 178 episodes will now, at our current pace, take us 2.4 months (that's like traveling at warp 9). 

I never thought I would have a daughter who would share the same fascination with a 30-year-old show that, at times, will test your resolve to get through an episode. One must be willing to put up with some outlandish plots, some overt sexism, and some fair to mediocre acting. Not to mention the lack of diversity. The only two black characters have visible disabilities – one blind, the other with a misshaped forehead (no offense to Klingons)

Star Trek: The Next Generation is showing its age. Start watching season one, and you’ll wonder: Does this get any better? I’m not even talking about the made-in-your-garage planetary sets. I’m talking about the time it takes two people to talk to one another. The long pauses. The raised eyebrows. The soap opera-like drama. 

Is this really the show I grew to be such a fan of as a teenager? Did today’s TV really evolve from this? 

Or come to think of it, maybe TV devolved. Because back then, all you whippersnappers, TV actually challenged your intellectual faculties. That’s right, there was no Survivor or Big Brother when I grew up. That televised junk food didn’t hit our palates until the year 2000, and yes, we all loved it... at first. But now we know what damage it can do to our brains... and to the American presidency (it all started with The Apprentice, remember). 

There are none of the cheap thrills in Star Trek that you might find in a Survivor episode. We’re talking philosophical questions in every episode, like can artificial intelligence become sentient? Should we impose our morals on less advanced cultures? And should Counselor Troi be permitted to wear whatever she pleases? 

Then there’s the humour. It’s Star Trek humour, so it might take you a while to appreciate. Data, the ship’s android, keeps trying to be more human (I have no idea why), which provides endless hilarity. He tries to tell jokes, to laugh like humans, and even grows a beard, becoming the butt of jokes among the crew. It's great fun mocking an android, especially one with no feelings. 

There’s a simple formula to the show that brings comfort in times like these. By the end of every episode, you know they’ll solve the problem that presents itself, even if death appears imminent. In every other show, by the way, death appears imminent. 

“Doctor, this is the Captain: You have 47 minutes to develop a vaccine before we all die! No, make that 46 minutes!” 

There are no more headaches in this golden era, just lethal Klingon viruses, for which a vaccine can be discovered in 46 minutes, give or take a minute. If only we had such technological know-how today (sigh). 

And if it’s not a biological adversary, then it’s an enemy with pointy ears or a bulbous forehead. Nothing a little diplomacy and charm can’t address, courtesy of Captain Picard. By the end of every episode, the world is a better place.

But such heady issues are only meant to be ingested once a week, as was originally intended. I told my daughter this, after a particularly bad night of binging. We witnessed a Klingon war trial, a trip to another time period, and the eradication of an entire species – all in three hours.  

Best to pace ourselves, I advised. We might need more than two month’s worth.

Our high school photos will haunt us forever

Almost every year I have the privilege of attending my daughter’s dance competition in Yorkton. Alas, not this year. I will miss it. Not just the dancing (yes, Ukrainian dance warms my heart), but the expansive hallways of a high school filled with reams of school photos. These pictures, frozen in time, include every single person who ever played on a Yorkton high school sports team, or even participated in a social club. All taken at the peak of the '80s school photo revolution. 

It’s a delight to see how much they cared about the 1984 badminton team. Or the mixed curling team of 1989 (they got bronze). And let's not forget the 1986 all-star wrestling team.

Sometimes it's better not to smile

One wonders what kind of golden epoch this was to be the school photographer. Certainly a full-time position, complete with one’s own office and studio, and a license to snap photographs 24/7.

I can just imagine the excitement.... “On the basketball team, Jimmy? Get over to the studio! I don’t care if you sat on the bench!”

“Brad, stop smirking like that! And Lisa, enough with the hairspray! Just look at the camera and... Smile!” 

It looks like many of the students simply stared, perhaps resigned to the fact that the images would haunt them for years to come... The '80s hair, defying gravity by shooting straight up into the air; the half-formed mustache, a valiant attempt by any male grade niner; and those broad, bookish glasses that George H.W. Bush used to wear. It all looked so cool back then. 

I should know, for I was one of them. Not in Yorkton, mind you, but another small-town high school in the '90s. And unfortunately, the only picture of me adorning my alma mater’s hallways is a photo I swear I didn’t choose. Given the opportunity to pick the best of four negatives, I’m certain there was one where I wasn’t snarling at the camera.

My parents' photos can be found in the same school, but back then photography was a serious affair. In the '60s, you didn’t dare form a stupid, half-baked smile. You looked straight at the camera, determined to change the world.  

My parents look far more mature than I know they possibly could’ve been at that age. Instead of straggly, peace-loving hippies, they looked like board members of some major institution. 

That all changed in the '80s. That’s when the girls got into the eye shadow and the guys started growing mustaches. It’s left a lasting impact on school photos forever. That punk-rock look was as poor an excuse for looking badass as there ever was. Let’s just say there’s only one Axl Rose. 

Now these photos will haunt the halls of our high schools forever. There’s no plan to take them down, not in my school and for sure not in Yorkton. That behemoth of a high school will likely be with us for eternity. Heck, it's even got its own cafeteria.

When you’re from a small town, you hang on to what you got. School pictures and all.

Time to address our anxiety pandemic

Ask anyone, and the worst thing about a job interview, a speech, or even a needle in the arm, is the anxiety that precedes it. 

We don’t cope well when something horrible is on the horizon. 

Today we’re watching a slow-moving tsunami that’s still about a hundred miles away. On the one hand, it’s good we have the time to prepare; but on the other, the wait can be excruciating. Especially when there's nothing more we can do about it. We’ve bought all the toilet paper we possibly can. 

Now there’s nothing left to do but to adhere to asocial distancing, the things not to do to avoid clinical depression: Stay home. Don’t congregate. Isolate. 

This leaves us with nothing better to do than watch the news (not recommended) or search the internet for the most riveting conspiracy theories (also not recommended). You'll be overcome by a sense of doom in hours. 

It surprised me how quickly I succumbed. At first I thought I was immune. I’m a relatively fit 40-something-year-old. That’s right, I’m in my prime (don’t laugh).  

Then one morning a couple weeks ago, while walking to the shop to get my car, I felt as close to having a panic attack as I’ve ever had. 

Perhaps it was the empty downtown streets on a weekday. Perhaps it was the steady barrage of COVID-19 news I had been consuming for the past two weeks. Perhaps it was the change in societal norms. I don’t like it when people start acting weird, moving across the street to avoid me on the sidewalk. What do I have, leprosy? 

Don’t get me wrong, I like social distancing. In fact, I prefer social distancing. Shopping in half-empty grocery stores is ideal for a person like me, whose blood pressure rises by a factor of how many people are within a five metre radius (it’s an interesting equation). 

But I can’t deny that the prevailing coronavirus dread was having an impact on my psyche. 

I had to withdraw from the news. I had to become ignorant of what was going on. For a news junkie, this was very hard, and I still have relapses. But do I really need to know how many people died in Italy today? 

A recent poll indicates that I’m not alone. The coronavirus is having a major impact on the mental health of 20% of Americans. I’m sure it’s the same across the globe. If we're not careful, it will only get worse. 

I’m fortunate that I still have a job, but the angst must be mounting for those laid off. People in the service industry, including small business owners, must be dreading the financial impact. Others who are in debt, one pay cheque away from insolvency, may feel particularly helpless. 

We live in a wealthy country, where the government can play an over-sized role in coming to our aid, but our resolve to get through this will be tested.  

In this golden age of humankind, we tend to lack coping skills for major life disruptions. We ride the good times without thinking bad days will ever come. Then when something hits, we’re somehow lost, the anchors in our lives (our job, our things) no longer keeping us hinged. 

Of course we’re more resilient than we think. My 97-year-old grandma lived through the Great Depression, World War II, and six kids – yet somehow her generation has been the least prone to depression of all of us. I just talked to her on the phone, where she laughed and made jokes, as she typically does. This is a woman who broke her arm in December, got transferred to a nursing home miles away from her friends, and is now confined to a small room, alone. But she was laughing. 

She's living proof that we can survive this. 

So give up the news for a while. Take this opportunity to do something different. Enjoy the solitude (if you can). Reach out to people, by phone or other means, and don’t forget, you’re not alone. The whole world is going through this, and technology-wise, we couldn’t be in a better position to weather the isolation. 

As a collective, we may even grow stronger from it. When the day comes (and it will) when we can all act normal again, we’ll feel like we’ve just escaped from prison. I have no real experience with that, but I can imagine. 

Life is relative. We only feel the way we do today because of how we felt yesterday, and the day before. Bottom line: Life is still good; it may get tough, but it will be bearable.  

A few months from now, it will be even better.