All Good Things

A Sense of Purpose

I spend an excessive amount of time worrying about the universe: expanding or imploding upon itself, depending on which scientific theory you prefer; its unexplored corners, full of twinkling unknowns and still discoverable secrets.

My favourite thing to worry about is its size relative to its fragility; how a single species like ours — specks of dust, really — might just fuck it all up. By all accounts, we're no more than a hair's breadth away from bringing the entire ecosystem to a cataclysmic halt.

Fortunately, some of us care enough to prevent that disastrous outcome. I'm not one of them. I want to be completely upfront with you about that. I'm grateful for their efforts, but I can't imagine where they get the energy — very little money in activism. Of course, there are scientists. They must make a good salary. But, in general, I'm giving the nod here to the hemp-wearing environmentalists and the everyday citizens who care enough to wage war against corporate greed, forestry, animal agriculture — the sorts of people who throw themselves in front of bulldozers and chain themselves to redwood trees. These are my heroes.

I mean, I recycle (if not to the exacting standards of the City of Toronto waste disposal guide), but that's about the most I can say I'm doing to prevent a global environmental collapse.

Overall, not an impressive claim.

I wish I led a purposeful life.

I don't participate in politics. I don't volunteer in soup kitchens. I've never done anything more civic-minded than clear my snow within 24 hours after a snowfall.

None of this is due to a lack of interest or, as you might be thinking, a lack of caring. I care. I read the news and I shudder with personal guilt. If only I had time -- time that wasn't spent at my desk looking longingly out at the last rays of the day's sun -- I'm sure I would find some way to make a difference in the world.

There's some sense of purpose, I suppose, in being a mother. But if I'm honest about it, I don't think it's healthy for a woman to derive her entire sense of self from motherhood. Certainly not from wife-dom. In both cases, you're at the mercy of other people's valuations, and in this market, that's not even worth shorting.

The desk I clock most of my time at sits under fluorescent lights in the corporate head offices of NorthLodge, a crumbling retail megalith — a company that once had stores in every city, town and outpost across Canada, its beige sales floors jammed with every imaginable houseware, toy or article of clothing a Canadian family could need. It's a brand that still has some weight, but it's the weight of ghosts, comprised of used-to-bes and childhood memories of Christmas list-making in a glossy paper catalogue. In the present day, like most old department stores, it's desperately close to obsolete. Loyal customers are aging, and younger ones aren't showing up to replace them. Who wants to buy a rice cooker and a flesh-coloured foundation garment from the same store anymore? Who wants to buy them at all, really?

Given the state of things, you'd never guess that a company like this would be so demanding of its employees. How could slow weekend sales of compression stockings and yogurt makers possibly induce panic at a scale that couldn't be left to sort out on Monday? You'd assume, wrongly, that a business on the verge of obsolescence would be all, like, "Thanks for giving it a shot today, guys, feel free to take off at noon and go spend time with your kids" or whatever.

I suppose it has something to do with the energized adrenaline rush of living on a cliff edge. You never know what will push you off, but every cell in your being knows that it's an imminent possibility. Because of that, our executive team responds to every threat, small or large, with the same preservation instinct that allows mothers to lift vehicles and free a trapped baby.

My position within this collision of brand, customer and perpetual crises (both imagined and real) is called, ridiculously, VP of Customer Centricity. This is a new-culture way of saying I manage the customer service and PR team who responds to customers when they complain. In this modern era, that complaining happens almost entirely on the very public stage of Twitter, Facebook etc, so my team's work is both highly visible and time-sensitive. Customers who have posted angrily about the fluorescent lighting in our stores giving their diabetic companion-animal a seizure while they were browsing our discount boxed bra aisle expect an IMMEDIATE reply. I mean, immediately. Because nothing in the whole wide universe could be more important than an apology from us and, hopefully, an offer to pay for the dog's seizure medication.

Another part of my job is to stick-handle public sentiment in the wake of our recent transformation efforts.

In response to flagging sales, the board appointed a new CEO (American) who arrived Brooks Brothers clad and tense to the point of hyperactivity. He immediately declared that we'd be narrowing our focus and rebranding on an "Authentically Canadian" theme. According to surveys conducted by our research department, this would resonate with the public. It had the feel-good air of patriotism with the promise of log cabin motifs and generous amounts of plaid. It also brought us more in line with the new boutique brands that are making a killing on kitsch.

As the first of the new product lines began to emerge, however, it was evident to anyone on the inside that 'Authentically Canadian' was just corporate-speak for 'cheap goods made in China that smell disconcertingly like chemicals.' The fact that Chinese designers cannot grasp (or aren't bothered about) the difference between a moose and a caribou has sparked more than one off-hours crisis, I can tell you.

At first, I found these frequent explosions exciting. I was exhilarated by the potential for disaster, the literal last-minute, often midnight-hour saves. I felt like an actual rock star — travelling through the halls of the office receiving high-fives, idolized for my ability to turn a nasty social hashtag into subdued silence and a return to business as usual. When did all of that get less fun? About 10,000 hours in would be my guess.

I recently heard myself describing my career as "the anti-climactic whimper of 31,200 hours of my life." The look of concerned pity that followed that statement really took my breath away.

"What?" I asked them.

"I think it's worrying that you've done the math," they said.

But of course I've done the math. When you've given over thirty thousand hours of your life to a company you despise, you're bound to think about it every time they contact you outside of office hours. And to prove the point, my phone beeped at me right then, and I excused myself from the conversation to add another 3 hours to the tab.