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.
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