I've never grasped the appeal of putting pictures of loved ones on your desk at work. And I mean, never. Even before the days of smartphones, when you really did go most of the day – gasp – without seeing them. It always struck me as… odd.
Was it a fear of forgetting? Did people genuinely wake up each morning, kiss their spouse goodbye, wave at their kids, and then think, "Man, by 3 p.m., their faces are totally going to be a blur. Better get a framed reminder!" Or was it a more desperate, silent plea to the universe: "Help me, my job sucks so badly that only the sight of Fluffy the dog wearing a tiny hat can get me through this quarterly report"?
I mean, I get the need for motivation. My motivation usually involves a copious amount of Buff coffee and the distant promise of tacos. (One of our bosses is notorious for his spontaneous midnight taco parties.) But a framed 5x7 of little Timmy at his first soccer game? That's a level of dedication to emotional scaffolding I've yet to achieve.
And the truly baffling part? People still do it. In an era where your cellphone is basically an extension of your hand, a device capable of holding approximately 37,284 photos of your family, your pets, your lunch and that questionable stain on the ceiling – why the physical print? You might as well just prop up your phone and run a slideshow.
Let's be real, you're likely distracted by your phone, anyway; if your kids are old enough, they're probably texting you about some urgent, life-altering crisis (like needing new shoes right now - now - now), or your spouse has been in contact from their workplace while they weren't focused on work, just like you. It feels a bit like having a landline next to your smartphone. Redundant, perhaps?
Speaking of making a statement, I once worked at a place where one woman took this whole "personalizing your workspace" thing to an entirely new, almost alarming, level. It wasn't just a picture or two; she practically set up a permanent residence. Her desk was an altar to domesticity: not one, but three framed photos (of varying sizes, naturally, for artistic depth), a tiny succulent that defied all odds by actually thriving in cubicle lighting, a ceramic mug collection, a motivational quote calendar, and what I'm pretty sure was a commemorative plate from a family cruise. It was like she'd packed up her entire living room, shrunken it down and declared her cubicle a micro-apartment. I half expected her to start demanding rent from her stapler.
The hilarious, soul-crushing irony, however, was that this particular office had a management team that loved playing musical chairs, er, desks with the staff. Every few weeks, it seemed, there was a new seating chart. So all of her carefully curated trinkets, photos, gizmos and meticulously arranged "stuff to get into her groove" would be messed around, packed, unpacked and re-arranged in a new corner of the office. It was like she was constantly moving house, but only 10 ft. in a different direction. I always felt a pang of sympathy as I watched her haul her miniature domestic empire across the office floor, only for it to be uprooted again before the succulent could even fully adjust to its new windowless view.
Which brings me to my ultimate, perhaps controversial, question: Isn't work, for many of us, supposed to be the escape from home life? A few hours where the biggest decision is whether to microwave leftover salmon or risk the communal fridge's mystery meat? A place where the only "kids" you're dealing with are your adult colleagues and your "spouse" is that overflowing inbox?
Maybe I'm just built differently. My desk is for work. My phone is for remembering my loved ones (and checking Twitter). Perhaps a picture of my desk, utterly devoid of family, would be a more accurate representation of my work-life balance. Or lack thereof.