Things I Miss

Recently, over a glass of wine, a friend and I discussed things we miss. Our lamentation, fueled undoubtedly by the discord in our current world, was for days gone by, for things that, big or small, made us happy. Please indulge my list (and the curmudgeon status it reveals):

I miss office water coolers.

Okay, perhaps water coolers were more from the era before I was working, but to me they are representative of the workplace. I miss the gathering of people, the casual friendships of co-workers. These days, office buildings mostly house the ghosts of conversations gone by. I miss the camaraderie and collaboration that were possible in the days before remote work. Nowadays, if I have a thought or idea, I have to schedule a Zoom to share it. Which takes me to item #2.

I miss the days before Zoom.

If I never see another frozen face on Zoom or hear another person’s screaming toddler, I’ll be just fine. I recognize and appreciate that Zoom is a necessary evil, but Zoom is no substitute for face-to-face interactions. There is no way on a Zoom meeting to interpret body language. Is your face showing contempt at what I just said, or are you simply smelling the turd that your pooch just deposited next to your desk?

I miss lunch.

Whatever happened to lunch? With all the remote work, gone are the days of lunches, it seems. Break room chairs grow dusty. And the fern bar lunches of the 1980s? Those were the days of the lunch hour; now, there’s a mandated 30-minute break that most everyone ignores, instead munching on a sandwich at their desk so they can leave the building early and go home to Zoom. (I reiterate item #2).

I miss flip phones.

Yes, admittedly smart phones have revolutionized our ability to access any trivial piece of information at any time. They have enhanced our safety, as we can track our loved ones driving down dark, rainy streets. But I miss the small flip phones that fit in our pockets, that we used for communication and not entertainment. I miss dinner being an opportunity to converse and food something to enjoy, rather than fodder for Instagram.

I miss not having to check myself.

I live in constant fear of being either politically incorrect or too woke. Much of the world is confusing to me. It’s not a matter of intolerance but instead a case of not being able to keep up when social norms shift. Stay off social media for 24 hours, and a new controversy has erupted. Sometimes it seems like getting along in society is a full time job.

I miss grammar.

It is not, nor will it ever be, okay to say “Her and me went to…” Since when did grammar become optional? Is it still taught in schools and, if so, why bother? I recently read a novel in which commas and semi-colons were used interchangeably, a book so ridden with grammatical errors that it distracted from the story. Is it hastiness or laziness on our parts? When did we stop caring about what we say?

I miss laughter.

Oh, this is the big one, and it has nothing to do with the way technology has advanced, or social morés or workplace nuances. I’m not referring to chuckling over late-night comics or cute puppy videos but rather the kind of laughter that erupts from your stomach, that rearranges all your facial muscles. I miss the kind of laughter that repairs scar tissue from heartbreak— that makes you temporarily forget the world we inhabit.

Laughter seems to be a habit I misplaced along the way.

Last weekend three college friends and I took a girls’ trip to the Florida Panhandle. We laughed our way through the weekend, mocked ourselves for walking on the 30-degree beach bundled in hats and gloves. We solved all the world’s problems and worked our way through the trials in each of our lives. (By the way, our grammar was impeccable).

And, finally of the age where we realize there are a finite number of sunsets, we reveled in each spectacular one.

There was considerable wisdom in that rented condo: Amongst us were the aggregate experiences of 9 children, 2 grandchildren, 42 jobs and 136 years of marriage. When we spoke of our parents, they were not abstractions: We knew each other’s families, each other’s stories. Forty years fell away, and we were college students again. Before husbands and children, before cancer and cholesterol. Before gray hair and elder-care and the passing of parents. Before we experienced those glass ceilings and unwelcome boardroom advances.

Back then, adorned with our add-a-bead necklaces, we thought we could do anything, be anything. The world tossed at us all the tests in its repertoire, and you know what? Drying my tears from a weekend of belly-laughing, I can report we have come out the other side. That in the years, the many years, to come, we can do and be anything.

Just watch us.

How restorative to be with people who know me better than I know myself—who can make me laugh at myself, who can make the difficult world feel a bit smaller, sweeter.

Of all the things, this is what I miss the most.

Cynthia, Susan and Jane, I love you! But next year we are going farther south.