My Beautiful Pandemic Resume

Though the threat of COVID-19 has significantly abated, the lessons we've learned throughout the course of the pandemic linger. It has been a challenging road, requiring us, as most professional challenges do, to be agile, to innovate, and to push through when we feared we could not proceed further. The qualities of agility, innovation and resilience are arguably valued in the corporate world, but I've yet to see a job application or hiring site that gathers such pandemic-related data or strives to measure it for the purpose of slotting people into appropriate career paths. It's safe to say, not all of us honed these skills, after all, some refused to change behavior or pivot in any way, qualities which could potentially be valued in certain industries.

Personally, I honed skills I did not anticipate ever needing, and I feel these accomplishments are worth celebrating. So, for lack of a pandemic performance review (or supervisor, for that matter, as I am self-employed) I'm enumerating some of the skills here.

Aesthetician, Stylist, Colorist

For those of us who followed social distancing recommendations, getting personal care services was a real challenge. The Mr. and I opted for a DIY approach--and though I've long dreaded the whole professional hair care carousel and product upsell, being forced into long-term hermitage helped me grow my at-home aesthetician skills. We ordered hair care supplies online and had them shipped to our home: shears, thinning shears, and an electric hair trimmer with multiple attachments. When the Mr. started to enter hockey hair territory, I sought training via YouTube to do what must be done. At last, we took to the backyard where, for two hours I sweated and swore and fretted what I was doing to his mane. And it didn't turn out half bad for a first attempt. After that, my confidence grew slowly, cut by cut. I learned the value of leaving strategically selected sections a wee bit longer for the purpose of concealing or styling, I learned how to blend better and I got faster at the task overall.

The bigger challenge was cutting and coloring my own hair--fighting the unflinching creep of time that seemed to advance even as our world ground to a halt. I was hosting an online broadcast, and my vanity wouldn't allow me to just go without, so I ordered hair color online, watched more YouTube videos and trimmed my hair. I wouldn't say I ever got great at it. But last year, I decided I wanted off the color treadmill, my tresses like straw at the end of a scorching autumn. And so I took the trimmer to my skull, with the #7 attachment, and buzzed it all off. It was exhilarating. It was freeing. It was empowering in the midst of a timeline that is incredibly disempowering for womankind. Somehow, by cutting all my hair off, I gained confidence.

By taking this in-house, we also discovered efficiencies, optimizing our household budget by saving at least a hundred dollars every month, $1200+ per year. Is there a LinkedIn skill tab for that?

Botanist/Gardener/Forager

At the start of the pandemic, I took a hard look at our desert-parched yard, and tried to imagine if we had to live off our land, whether we could do it. I knew if the pollinators found us we'd have tangerines in the winter. I researched how to collect and prepare mesquite pods from the tree in our front yard, and successfully ground them into flour in my Vitamix, which can be used as a gluten free flour or coffee alternative, and imparts an interesting, nutty/sweet flavor. I also tried to harvest some of the cactus in our garden for nopales, which left my hands full of cactus spines, and my plate full of slimy strips of cactus. I planted a few things from seed, many of which wilted in our extreme climate. I did, however, successfully harvest a handful of cherry tomatoes, a few anemic pea pods, several squash blossoms and a small zucchini or two.

In the end, it's safe to say my panic garden was a failure that wouldn't have sustained us even for a week. I was left with no other choice than to augment our supplies via more traditional means. I think I'd conveniently leave this item off my pandemic resume--though perhaps knowing when to cut losses and change direction is a skill worthy of listing? In business terms, it's iteration, is it not?

Pandemic Supplies Manager and Purchasing Strategist

Procuring supplies in the first year of the pandemic, in particular, posed a particular challenge. There were massive runs on certain supplies, as well as supply chain issues to contend with. I daresay few of us have forgotten these issues, in part because some shortages continue. As the unofficial household needs procurement officer, I had to learn how to obtain what we needed regularly, and safely, in the middle of a public health crisis. As someone who had historically shopped multiple times a week, I now found I needed to find ways to reduce or eliminate my shopping time and number of trips. I started ordering in bulk online, and found I liked the convenience of having a commercial box of toilet paper at the ready whenever supplies dwindled in the bath. More, I didn't have to fumble the unwieldy packages, which always seemed a flashing beacon to passersby, "Yes, I poop too!" Gone was the shame of needing the loo. (Though I don't object to bidets and in fact have enjoyed them in my travels, I wasn't ready to add plumber to my pandemic resume. I also reasoned that using more potable water in the toilet seemed counterintuitive in the desert.)

The process of shopping itself had grown unnerving, with sometimes contentious and volatile customers, empty shelves, and varying states of pandemic preparedness by stores themselves. Tired of steeling myself for the experience and the risk of exposing loved ones with comorbidities to a potential COVID infection I might pick up in the grocery aisles, I pivoted to delivery. We joined a CSA, and took advantage of the offer of local businesses to deliver items like bread and fresh greens. And when grocery delivery or pick up was launched, I took advantage of those services as well. The switch saved neither time nor money, but these were deemed wise tradeoffs in favor of convenience and reduced exposure.

Artisan Jeweler

I never fancied myself a jeweler. But during the pandemic I became interested in jewelry-making, in particular resin jewelry. I bought resin supplies and molds online, as well as colors, chains and notions. I turned off the upsetting news on all of my devices in favor of diving down into something creative and expansive, giving my brain an essential break and focusing on something beautiful instead.

A favorite bowl I'd made on the pottery wheel had chipped, so I smashed it to bits and placed pieces of it within the resin, my personal take on kintsugi, an intentional metaphor for our collective metamorphosis. I made so much jewelry, I sent it out to friends and family for the holidays, with parcels going around the world. I like to think it spread a little bit of joy in difficult times, ripples from my own intentional space of calm that I cultivated in the midst of the storm. From time to time someone sends me a photo of them wearing a piece I made, and the joy comes full circle, back to my doorstep. How do I list that on a resume?

Chef (with all due respect to actual, trained chefs)

Restaurants had to change their approach to survive during lockdown. And while we tried to support local businesses as much as possible, it was clear neither our household budget nor our waistlines would allow for meal delivery in perpetuity. So the Mr. and I committed to learning how to be great at-home cooks. It was an interest I had cultivated for years, voraciously reading cookbooks and trying different techniques, much to the delight and sometimes horror of those at my table. We added to our training even more growth opportunities, signing up for online cooking classes and trying to master difficult recipes rarely attempted in home kitchens.

Months into the pandemic, I held a small gathering (my mother, the Mr., and me) which I dubbed the End of the World Party. I procured the best products I could find, some of which were foods we had never tasted much less prepared: a Japanese A5 wagu steak, jamon iberico, pancetta, foie gras, and prepared duck confit. It felt like the end of the world, and we ate like there was no tomorrow, dipping raw wagu into local raw egg yolks, letting the iberico melt on our tongues. That Christmas, I prepared an epic brunch, striving for a feeling of abundance. I cooked for 20, but there were just four of us at the table, feasting on caviar on homemade blini, bottarga in olive oil and lemon, and a hundred other delicious things all washed down with mimosas.

We dove head first into comfort foods like Swedish meatballs (a family recipe), pork carnitas, birria, and Anthony Bourdain's 7-hour leg of lamb from the Les Halles cookbook. We prepared Julia Child's steak au poivre and leeks braised in butter. We tested our dumpling-folding skills by making soup dumplings from scratch. We labored over delicious baked goods and soups from scratch. We rolled sushi and spring rolls. We braised oxtail and veganized recipes too, making vegan fried chicken and steak and much, much more. We wrote menus which we still have today, time capsules of what fed us when our souls were starved.

And then, we did a deep dive into America's Test Kitchen. We started watching episodes on television, then bought their massive cookbook and some affiliated cookbooks, and then we began amassing a collection of DVDs. We purchased 17 seasons of the show, minus season five which we have had difficulty finding. They're now at 22 seasons, but we have thus far held off on purchasing the most recent episodes which are airing frequently on television. We often watched shows multiple times, zoning out, safe from the firestorm of the world, and instead immersed in the never-ending quests for the perfect sear, the ideal flaky pie crust, the impeccably broken-down chicken. The latter came in especially useful in a self-directed three-week search for the best Jamaican jerk recipe, during which I procured three of the best local chickens I could find and broke them down in tandem like a near pro. The final jerk recipe I developed, an amalgam of what I determined to be best practices, is addictive. I tried and failed to make a chocolate-brown roux for gumbo, and then I did ATK research, tweaked my process, tried again, and succeeded. ?We watched the show with such dedication and fervor, it bordered on madness. We wrote back stories for the hosts. Julia and her fishmonger husband whom we pictured begging her to feature fish in the show's recipes; Jack Bishop who we imagined smoking and drinking whiskey in his after hours. We connected with Adam Reid on Instagram. We watched an estimated 200 hours of programming. And then we hit our tipping point. We developed a deep hatred of Chris Kimball, whose sheer narcissism wore on us. We'd scream profanities at the television during his self-important intros. Shortly thereafter we backed off our fandom.

Through it all, we ate well, my friends. We ate very well.

Not classically trained, but perhaps self-taught, can I list cook on my CV?

Activities and Events Coordination

Devoid of external entertainment opportunities, our household sought to create our own. First, we committed to playing a favorite dice game, via phone, three times a week with Mom. This allowed us to touch base with one another while maintaining social distancing and eliminating pandemic fatigue if only for a half hour. We still continue this tradition today.

We then decided we would each try to plan and execute events that would take place within the safety of our own walls. For starters, the Mr. and I each developed a bar concept, and we did a bar crawl within our own home. His was a soviet-era drinking establishment dubbed "Sputnik Bar," transforming our home office. With the air conditioning on full blast, and Sputnik hanging from the light fixture, we drank vodka and listened to Russian music. Cast in the light of the war on Ukraine this now feels a bit cringey, but as the pandemic raged, it provided the comfort of escapism when we otherwise couldn't venture out. I developed a concept which I called "Empire." We dressed up, and climbed a ladder to our rooftop, where we watched the sunset and sipped cocktails.

Enjoying the success of our endeavor, we expanded the concept to include Mom, each of us taking turns to plan our own event. I was first on the docket. Since Mom had to scratch her annual migration to Minnesota for the summer, I sought to transform our Tucson home into her summer cabin in Fifty Lakes. I fashioned a fire pit in the yard. I emptied the living room of furniture and pitched tents and brought in trees from outside. And I reimagined our kitchen/dining space into the municipal building in Fifty Lakes, complete with up-north vibe, logo apparel, restaurant/bar, and bingo. For a few hours, with substantial suspension of disbelief, we were in the Northwoods of Minnesota. We capped the night with a fire in the pit, over which we toasted marshmallows.

The Mr. was next in line to host. His theme: Casablanca. He transformed our living room into Rick's Cafe, with a cardboard Sam playing piano, and himself, dressed as the ever-charming Rick, white coat (thanks, Jeff Bezos) and all. He poured mom and I--who'd been coached to dress smartly--champagne in coupes, and served up hors d'oeuvres and fine pastries on a white table cloth, against a hand-cut backdrop. We then retired to the gambling hall where we tried our luck at roulette while Sam played, "As Time Goes By."

At last, it was Mom's turn to have a go at it. When we arrived at her place, we were awestruck. Her home was the absolute embodiment of Chinese New Year. Decked out with paper lanterns, dragons, tapestries and symbols of the year of the bull celebration, we were transported. The menu was equally as stunning. She served us fine sake to welcome us. She had researched traditional dishes and painstakingly prepared them with hard-to-find ingredients and even dishware. The menu included prosperity salad, chicken tail bun, Peking duck (in this case a Cornish hen), beef and broccoli, kung pao shrimp, and traditional desserts, all scratch-made. After the mind-blowing feast, we played traditional games that she had researched and developed for our enjoyment.

Emotional Intelligence

As mass vaccination efforts began, I decided it was time to contribute to our collective recovery, and volunteered at a vaccine Point of Distribution in Tucson. I directed traffic, and it felt good to be a part of the solution to getting back to some semblance of normal. People in line were genuinely excited to get vaccinated, and hope was in the air. We vaccinated thousands of people a day, and I'm so grateful I got to be a part of that healing effort. When the chance to get my vaccine came up, I was overwhelmed with emotion for me, for those in my life at high risk, and for all of us on this long, painful journey.

Then as the pandemic began to recede, about a year later, I ventured out in to the world at last. I had, on top of mastering skills outside of employment, worked myself to exhaustion. It turns out businesses needed communications professionals more than ever during the crisis. I said no to nothing. And of course, after two-plus years of overwork, I hit the wall. I contemplated changing industries, but to what? To get myself back to good, I determined I needed a summer-long sabbatical to figure things out. Near the end of my sabbatical, I contracted COVID and isolated in Southeast Asia. I returned home with persistent brain fog, headaches and fatigue. I found myself unable to find words or make sense of new information, incapable of distilling it down to terms the average person could understand, a task that I'd been doing with relative ease for 25 years. I had two choices: disappoint my clients, or step back. I chose self-compassion (with a side of self-loathing) and began, at last, saying no. A year later, the fog is beginning to lift, and I'm glad I made the choices I did, but I still don't know what I will list next on my resume.

In many job interviews over the years, I've been asked about the worst job I've ever had. The subtext is not that employers want to offer compassion for the workplace trauma you've endured, but rather want to gauge how effective you will be at enduring the trauma they will heap upon you. To see if you learned lessons, and turned the negative experience into something positive. Living through a global pandemic has to rank among the hardest chapters any of us have had to navigate: learning, innovating, iterating and enduring through the most challenging of times, when our world teetered on a precipice. Maybe we can't list what we learned on a resume or on LinkedIn; automated resume filters would come up short in identifying and assessing a value to these skills anyway. Productivity is easy to measure, but endurance, tenacity, agility and emotional intelligence are enigmatic. But that doesn't mean these skills don't empower us as we walk the roads ahead; in fact, quite the opposite. To discover our inherent worth, to overcome the seemingly impossible, and to come out on the other side trusting fully in our ability to survive and perhaps even thrive in the face of adversity are arguably worth more than anything we can put into words on a resume. And I think that is beautiful.