Four individuals have now become part of the select group of people who can claim to have returned to Earth following a significant journey—quite literally. Welcome back, Artemis II crew: you have much to celebrate after following in the notable paths of celebrities like Katy Perry and Lauren Sánchez, wife of Jeff Bezos. Most importantly, you have returned safely. Not only did you manage to survive in space, but even more impressively, you endured a prolonged period confined in very limited space with your fellow crew members. Anyone who has spent time in an office environment can attest that this is one of the greatest tests of human endurance.
Commander Reid Wiseman, along with mission specialists Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen, and pilot Victor Glover, recently completed a 10-day mission in a capsule described as being “not much larger than a family tent.” Under normal circumstances, if tensions rise among colleagues, having the option to leave for the day provides a chance to unwind and gather one’s thoughts. Maintaining a harmonious relationship without any breaks for personal time would be extremely challenging, even for the most seasoned professionals. One can only imagine how their individual quirks and habits might have tested each other’s patience, despite the fact that it’s likely impossible to chew with your mouth open in a zero-gravity environment.
Just like in a family, you cannot choose your colleagues; however, you can at least sever ties with relatives. Recall the moment when Tim from The Office insightfully remarked: “The people you work with are just people you were thrown together with… The only thing you likely have in common is that you share the same piece of carpet for eight hours a day.” Or, in this case, sharing the same spacecraft around the clock.
How one navigates these complex relationships can reveal aspects of their personality that may be less than flattering. Such experiences can transform individuals into someone they never thought they would be, someone who becomes overly focused on trivial matters, with pettiness that knows no limits.
My first job was at a small independent stationery store situated in an industrial area of my hometown. It was just as unremarkable as it sounds. Although my memory is starting to show signs of age, I can still affirm, more than 25 years later, that there are 500 sheets in a ream of photocopy paper and five reams in a box. No, this knowledge has never come in handy, not even during a pub quiz.
The excitement level in that office was so low that when a cat wandered through the parking lot one day, it became a topic of conversation for days. A branch of a major national stationery chain had recently opened nearby, placing us in the position of the underdogs, constantly undermined by their prices, which we could neither match nor compete against. It was likely this combination of monotony and helplessness that led me to fixate on something I could control and invest in it deeply. I became involved in an ongoing rivalry with a man old enough to be my grandfather over whether a small window equidistant between our desks should be kept open or closed.
For some unknown reason, the unspoken rule of this battle was that if either of us was caught in the act of manipulating the window, we would lose. It could only be adjusted while the other was away from their station.
By the end of my tenure, I despised that job with every fiber of my being, yet I often arrived early, stayed late, and remained at my desk for lunch, which had become warm and stale after being stored in a drawer, as I couldn’t leave my station to visit the kitchen fridge. I was likely dangerously dehydrated since I limited my liquid intake to avoid needing to use the restroom. When called into a meeting, we would meander on the way in but sprint on the way out. Thankfully, there was never a fire.
We were always the first to arrive and the last to leave the office—oh, the sweet, glorious satisfaction of getting there before him and looking up triumphantly as he rushed in, his expression shifting when he saw me. We were the only two who didn’t venture out for lunch. Consequently, our cold war forced us to spend more time together than we did with anyone else, which served us both right.
On my final day, my rival left before I did. He stood up, slammed the window shut, and exited without a word—an equivalent to a dramatic exit in the stationery world. A pen drop, if you will. This was proof that it is possible to respect the individual while disliking the game. (Which I undoubtedly won. No take-backs.)
Polly Hudson is a freelance writer.
