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Jim Lein
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Confessions of a Feral Worker
According to Wikipedia, “A feral organism is one that has changed from being
domesticated to being wild or untamed”. About four years ago, I became a full time
telecommuter. My dirty little secret? I am a feral worker. I maintain a professional—
albeit virtual—persona but, behind the scenes, the combined effects of
telecommuting have morphed me into a wild, untamed organism within the
American workforce.
I suppose a stray domestic animal goes feral once it needs to find a meal on its
own. My transformation was more of an evolutionarily process. When I started
working full time from home I was provided with a list of guidelines for home office
ergonomics and productivity. I crumpled it up and burned it in the fireplace,
perhaps a warning sign of my feral inclinations.
I first set up camp in my college student son’s semi-vacant bedroom. But it was
cold and the walls housed our domesticated colony of black widow spiders. Soon
after resettling in the master bedroom I realized that I was spending about 95% of
my life in one room. Ultimately, I bought a cheap computer cart and went nomad. I
just roll it around the house—and sometimes the property—and start working
wherever I stop.
As a telecommuter, my productivity immediately increased but as an outgoing,
social human being the isolation triggered some degree of panic. Once the wife
and kids left the house in the morning, I was alone…so very, very alone.
Redefining social interaction, I held one-on-one meetings with my pets. Both the
cats slept through their appointments but the dogs proved to be good listeners. Yet
we failed to relate like typical co-workers would. They are domestic. I, the Master,
decide when they eat, go outside, and when and where they can poop and pee. As
a feral worker, I am free to do any of those activities whenever the urge strikes.
I also needed to tweak my perceptions of self-esteem. Back at the office I’m an
“M4” which gets me a real office and close-in parking spot. In my home office I’m
just the alpha male and that only gets me first dibs on what’s in the refrigerator. My
kids may never adjust to what’s become of their father. Their friends’ parents have
tangible careers—engineers, geologists, airline pilots. The last thing they see
before catching the bus is the head of the family staring at a computer screen and
wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and fluffy slippers. Sometimes it’s the first thing they
see when they get back home as well. Let’s not even talk about Career Day.
The internal clocks and moods of traditional office workers are relatively in synch.
My piecemeal, variable work schedule has thrown me out of kilter. When I’m about
to venture into the office for supplies or the rare face-to-face meeting, I ask myself
“What are normal, domesticated workers thinking and doing right now?”.
A good first step before leaving home is to look in a mirror. Feral worker fashion
focuses on function over form. In the current post-recessionary climate, a casually
dressed unshaven man shopping for groceries in the middle of the day is assumed
to be unemployed and having given up on any hopes of reemployment. Surely that’
s what the UPS guy is thinking when I sign for a package at noon dressed in a bath
robe and slippers.
For those rare sorties to the office, you still can’t go wrong with black wool slacks, a
dress shirt, and sport coat—the male version of “the little black dress”. Since such
trips are infrequent, I need to plan ahead and not take the condition of those
garments for granted. My one good pair of dress slacks might currently be serving
double duty as a dog bed in the bottom of some closet. I cross my fingers each
time I slip them on since considerable waistline variation can occur over a few
weeks—due to things like humidity and planet alignment—but so far so good. A
good shirt can be washed and pressed in an hour. Two black socks aren’t that
hard to track down but it can be a challenge to locate a matching pair. Splitting
hairs, to a feral worker.
Men hate to shave and I do so opportunistically and whatever tools are close at
hand. Pink razors work just as well as blue and I don’t let domesticated office
workers to get close enough to notice if I happened to used Skin So Soft instead of
Old Spice.
Too much of anything feral is a bad thing. Feral pigs are wreaking havoc on the
environment in several states. Feral dogs threatening the antelope population in
Nairobi National Park. Feral cats are spreading disease and reducing the
songbird population in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. Should enough
telecommuters get the feral urge, who knows what fate awaits our nation?
A recent article in National Geographic relates how it takes about 6 generations to
domesticate fox. Let’s hope I never have to go back to a traditional work
environment—I don’t have that much time.
I’m heading out for a bite of lunch now. What to wear….what to wear.
According to Wikipedia, “A feral organism is one that has changed from being
domesticated to being wild or untamed”. About four years ago, I became a full time
telecommuter. My dirty little secret? I am a feral worker. I maintain a professional—
albeit virtual—persona but, behind the scenes, the combined effects of
telecommuting have morphed me into a wild, untamed organism within the
American workforce.
I suppose a stray domestic animal goes feral once it needs to find a meal on its
own. My transformation was more of an evolutionarily process. When I started
working full time from home I was provided with a list of guidelines for home office
ergonomics and productivity. I crumpled it up and burned it in the fireplace,
perhaps a warning sign of my feral inclinations.
I first set up camp in my college student son’s semi-vacant bedroom. But it was
cold and the walls housed our domesticated colony of black widow spiders. Soon
after resettling in the master bedroom I realized that I was spending about 95% of
my life in one room. Ultimately, I bought a cheap computer cart and went nomad. I
just roll it around the house—and sometimes the property—and start working
wherever I stop.
As a telecommuter, my productivity immediately increased but as an outgoing,
social human being the isolation triggered some degree of panic. Once the wife
and kids left the house in the morning, I was alone…so very, very alone.
Redefining social interaction, I held one-on-one meetings with my pets. Both the
cats slept through their appointments but the dogs proved to be good listeners. Yet
we failed to relate like typical co-workers would. They are domestic. I, the Master,
decide when they eat, go outside, and when and where they can poop and pee. As
a feral worker, I am free to do any of those activities whenever the urge strikes.
I also needed to tweak my perceptions of self-esteem. Back at the office I’m an
“M4” which gets me a real office and close-in parking spot. In my home office I’m
just the alpha male and that only gets me first dibs on what’s in the refrigerator. My
kids may never adjust to what’s become of their father. Their friends’ parents have
tangible careers—engineers, geologists, airline pilots. The last thing they see
before catching the bus is the head of the family staring at a computer screen and
wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and fluffy slippers. Sometimes it’s the first thing they
see when they get back home as well. Let’s not even talk about Career Day.
The internal clocks and moods of traditional office workers are relatively in synch.
My piecemeal, variable work schedule has thrown me out of kilter. When I’m about
to venture into the office for supplies or the rare face-to-face meeting, I ask myself
“What are normal, domesticated workers thinking and doing right now?”.
A good first step before leaving home is to look in a mirror. Feral worker fashion
focuses on function over form. In the current post-recessionary climate, a casually
dressed unshaven man shopping for groceries in the middle of the day is assumed
to be unemployed and having given up on any hopes of reemployment. Surely that’
s what the UPS guy is thinking when I sign for a package at noon dressed in a bath
robe and slippers.
For those rare sorties to the office, you still can’t go wrong with black wool slacks, a
dress shirt, and sport coat—the male version of “the little black dress”. Since such
trips are infrequent, I need to plan ahead and not take the condition of those
garments for granted. My one good pair of dress slacks might currently be serving
double duty as a dog bed in the bottom of some closet. I cross my fingers each
time I slip them on since considerable waistline variation can occur over a few
weeks—due to things like humidity and planet alignment—but so far so good. A
good shirt can be washed and pressed in an hour. Two black socks aren’t that
hard to track down but it can be a challenge to locate a matching pair. Splitting
hairs, to a feral worker.
Men hate to shave and I do so opportunistically and whatever tools are close at
hand. Pink razors work just as well as blue and I don’t let domesticated office
workers to get close enough to notice if I happened to used Skin So Soft instead of
Old Spice.
Too much of anything feral is a bad thing. Feral pigs are wreaking havoc on the
environment in several states. Feral dogs threatening the antelope population in
Nairobi National Park. Feral cats are spreading disease and reducing the
songbird population in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. Should enough
telecommuters get the feral urge, who knows what fate awaits our nation?
A recent article in National Geographic relates how it takes about 6 generations to
domesticate fox. Let’s hope I never have to go back to a traditional work
environment—I don’t have that much time.
I’m heading out for a bite of lunch now. What to wear….what to wear.
Ink Bottle Syndicate, LLC ~ Bill Kellogg ~ 907-441-6882 ~ bill@inkbottlesyndicate.com