The Lost Art of Nothing to Do

Musings of an Anxious Millennial Writer #15: Reflections on Snow Days and Sick Days

My husband spent the bulk of last week working from home with me, something that only happens on rare occasions (in this instance, it was because of a reported Covid case at his office. After frequent testing and no additional spread, he’s returned to his normal in-office routine.) As is customary when he's home though, the TV remained on, something I typically never do when I'm working remotely—which I do all the time. This didn’t distract me too much, I dare say it even upped my productivity a bit (he, on the other hand, is still playing catch up. Turns out when you're used to three monitors and an ergonomic setup, a laptop on the couch just will not do). But the TV was on for really one purpose only: to have The Price is Right on in the background while he took calls and I read over scripts. No, these technically weren't “sick” days for us, since we were still working, but tradition waits for no one to fall ill. Or something like that.

Allow me to preface this by saying that I am fortunate and grateful to work remotely. It's allowed me incredible flexibility and I haven't missed a step in my abilities—and if I ever do feel like I'm falling behind, I can always go into the office to play catch up. Do I miss seeing folks regularly? Sure, but, like most people, my social battery can only take so much, and I am someone who has always preferred to work alone.

What I DO miss, however, is time off from work. That's not to say that I don't take vacation time or appropriate sick time when needed. But I, like most of my millennial comrades just trying to exist in a capitalist hellscape, often work through the minor colds and cases of flu that we once would have taken appropriate time to rest through, while we’re also collectively all continuing to work through tragedy and WTF moment after tragedy and WTF moment. Why? Because we're already home, so why not?

At the start of this year, my husband and I both came down with nasty cases of the flu. I hadn't been that sick in a long time, and the few times I was conscious in between my fever-state fugues, I'd be bundled up on the couch, catching episodes of the New Year's Day Odd Couple marathon before returning to my bed for yet another nap. (I’m a fervent believer that people fall into three camps when the year begins: Twilight Zone, The Honeymooners, or The Odd Couple. I’m firmly on team Felix and Oscar all the way.) These frequent naps led to a severe case of sciatic back pain that lasted for the next week or so. Folks, if you take anything away from this, let it be this piece of advice: try to put off hitting your mid-thirties for as long as possible.

Because of this, both my husband and I decided it would be best if we extended our holiday breaks by one day, as having fevers and hacking coughs wouldn't make either of us particularly productive at our respective jobs. We were both slightly, very slightly, better on that Tuesday, so we were at least semi-conscious for most of the day. But for it to be a truly sick day, we did the few token things one should do: watch The Price is Right, eat McDonald’s breakfast, and order hot soup for dinner.

As a kid, sick days were a joy. Sure, my nose was usually running like a faucet, burnt from the number of times I'd rub it against my tender tiny nose, and I'd grow tired of my grandmother commanding me to blow instead of sniffle, but it meant I didn't have to be in school. From an early age getting out of bed in the morning was always a challenge for me, so any time I could get those few hours of precious sleep meant it would be a good day in my book. Once awake, the mandatory viewing of The Price is Right would occur, followed by a day of cartoons, occasionally flipping back and forth between Nickelodeon and Comedy Central. If I knew the night before I'd be off, I might even prep some key VHS tapes for viewing, anything comforting to assuage the awfulness of having to ingest antibiotics or, worse, Triaminic (Dimetapp was never a problem though, in fact, I still take it to this day). And maybe, just maybe, if I was lucky I’d get McDonald’s, even if I couldn’t taste it.

Going back to school was always a treat too because it meant you got to be in the spotlight a bit. The longer the absence, the more fanfare you'd return to. All your friends had to be nice to you, too, so that was a bonus.

Snow days, on the other hand, were a sacred experience. You could engage in your typical sick day activities, but while being completely healthy. So healthy that you'd risk becoming unhealthy by diving face-first into a pile of freshly fallen snow, making snow angels for hours, or pelting your mother with poorly formed snowballs while she tried to dig her car out from under a heavy snow pile. As a kid, I never understood what the big deal about shoveling was, and I'd have little regard for the adults in my life when I'd wistfully turn my pajamas inside out before going to bed the night before.

I was in second grade during the blizzard of '96, which was reported as a catastrophic event, but for me, it was the only time in my young life that I was ever truly able to build a good, sturdy snowman. It was also fortunate that it happened right at the same time we were supposed to be having our second-grade mid-term exams (they had some kind of letter-coded name at the time that struck immense fear in my heart any time I'd hear them mentioned. I suppose my trauma response to them has passed since I can no longer remember what the name of said tests was). This was the first time I truly cherished the beloved snow day. I could get a free day off, no tests, AND a winter wonderland at my disposal to play in, with literally zero responsibilities except for making sure I bundled up enough, so I didn't catch a cold. It was like a second Christmas.

Alas, I was not yet a convert to winter, even if my birthday took place in the thick of it. A winter birthday just meant that I could never have a pool party in my honor, the only thing I ever wanted (and to be completely honest, still want). That first snowy-but-not-snowy-enough-for-a-snow day or, worse, the dreaded two-hour-delay-instead-of-a-snow-day, gave me a taste of what would be my future: begrudgingly trudging through the snow and bitter cold, still on the hook for getting to my responsibilities on time, no remorse for how yucky the weather is, only now I’m the one who has to shovel and white-knuckle drive my way through hazardous conditions to get to work or appointments on time.

Until the wonder of remote work.

So, like I said, I'm incredibly grateful to have the ability to work from home. And I'm especially reminded of that when I don't have to stress about getting up early to defrost my car, clean its windshield, and pray they finally salted the goddamn streets as I make my way through rush hour traffic in the cold. Being able to enjoy the beauty of snow from my living room, sipping hot coffee from a carefully chosen mug, wrapped in a cozy sweater, is a luxury that, and I cannot stress this enough, fucking slaps.

And yet, there's still a sense of longing that comes with it.

That feeling the night before a snowstorm that we might get walloped come morning, that uncertainty of whether or not I'll have to wake up, or if I'll be greeted with the news of a closed school, allowing me to dive back under the covers or maybe stay up but spend the morning watching cartoons or playing video games—I miss that feeling. It's not even the extra day off aspect of it, it's the entirety of the experience: the anticipation, the hope, the dream realized, the day that's filled with the promise of getting to do whatever the hell I want, not bogged down by chores or priorities or existential dread.

The same goes for sick days. When you work remotely or have the option to, sometimes being sick works on a scale. Feeling so ill I cannot physically sit at my home desk or see straight enough to log into Slack for the day is, thankfully, a rarity. But it means that sick days dwindle. And when I do take them, I'm often wracked with guilt, and feel the need to "log on" as much as I can so I don't miss a step. Is this asked of me? Not at all. Is my brain going to convince me that everything is going to go wrong and I'm going to walk into the worst experience of my life since I was gone for just one day upon my return? Absolutely. We all deserve endless sick days from the disease of capitalism, but I fear it's rotted our brains too much that even if we got there, we’d find a way to work through them anyway.

…But we still have The Price is Right.

Even with Drew Carey as our fearless leader, days off can still give us a tiny little peek into our pasts. A moment to go back and time and relive some of our fondest memories—even if those now come with sinus pressure and sciatic back issues. The Price is Right still being on the air gives me hope that, somewhere out there, people are still taking time off, getting snow days, enjoying a day away from the grind, whether it be school or work. It gives me hope that capitalism and our fucked beyond repair climate issues haven't totally depleted our ability to stay home and watch people guess how much everyday items are, being starkly reminded of just how much it costs to live in this hellhole of a country. Ok, maybe The Price is Right isn't necessarily the beacon of hope in that sense, but there's still something comforting about some things never changing. That big wheel will keep on turning, even if the world around us is burning.

Maybe one day I'll choose to take a day off with the sole purpose of doing absolutely nothing at all; without being too sick to enjoy it. I’ll bask in my solitary time. I’ll wake up late, watch The Price is Right, play some Super Mario, and queue up all my favorite movies in a row. And I won't feel guilty about it, or nervous about what I can’t control. Not one bit.

Ok, I’ll probably still feel a little worried. Because, let’s be honest, a slight baseline of fear is just as much a part of my childhood as sick days, snow days, Triaminic, and McDonald’s Happy Meals. Like I said, some things, unfortunately, never change.