I think I’m a whiteboard person now.

I’ve always been a fairly cynical person. People with hope and aspirations and dreams that haven’t been quashed by the crushing mediocrity of everyday life have roll my eyes made me. And people with home whiteboards seemed to fit into that category.

They had goals, which they would write on their whiteboard. They had affirmations, which they would write on their whiteboard. They drew strength from inspirational quotes, which they would write on their whiteboards. And they did it off their own bats; they weren’t at work and having to pretend to be engaged in life and at least a little bit driven to achieve things. This was a way they chose to carry on.

It was one of those weird things I took a stance on – like, I’ll write to do lists until the cows come home, but so help me god I’m doing it on paper instead of a glossy surface using pens that can easily be erased like some wanker. I’m different!

It’s kind of like how I used to scoff at people who wore Lorna Jane gear. Like, who in their right mind would pay like $50 bucks for a singlet that tell you to “never, ever, ever, ever, ever give up” when you could work out in an old t-shirt you got from a pub crawl in Amsterdam? I mean, why project positivity and wealth when you could communicate to people that you’re cool, drink the alcohol and have been to Europe via strategic t-shirtery? On top of that, why actually look good when you work out when you could make people think you don’t give a fuck about how people think you look, you’re there to sweat and get on with life because you’re so effortless and authentic and you’re not shallow, you know?

That was me.

But when the thighs of my college merch ruggers were worn down to nothing and the chaffing became more insufferable than my personality, I found myself crawling to Lorna, enticed by the shorts that had little bike shorts inside them which prevented my thighs from looking like the cheeks of the stereotypical teenage fast food worker from The Simpsons. It was a revelation. And it didn’t change who I was: I was just as judgemental, only with less sweat rash.

* Yes, that horrifying illustration WAS inspired the ad for 3B cream but I added extra redness to the thighs to communicate the extremity of the chaffing. I also added what I call “pain lines” but they kind of look like hairs. 

I now have six pairs of Lorna Jane shorts and three pairs leggings. I mean, sure, I still wear shitty t-shirts with them because I need to cover my pale skin from the wrath of the sun and I still care deeply what strangers think about me, but I’m converted.

And that’s now how I feel about the whiteboard.

We put one up in our dining room/home office when the COVID hit and I’ve really taken to it.

Perhaps it’s still the novelty of the thing, but I’ve been enjoying writing down the house morning schedule and adding the task “be fabulous” to the list. I like using it to remind me what meals I need to make to clean the mildly decaying food from the fridge. I like subjecting my housemates to a “thought of the day”.

I’m now looking forward to writing other things on the whiteboard. It’s got to the point that I’m cooking up household events to alert my housemates to, like “happy hour on the deck, 1.3pm-6.30pm” and “Lounge Room Screening: Midsomer Murders, 5.30pm”. Then there’s the nightly dinner specials like “I’m cookin’ a roast, so dress fancy” or “chicken fingers, again”. I am looking forward to saying “so let it be written, so let it be done” before adding trivial tasks to the hallowed whiteboard. I mean, what a gas.

My housemate reckons the whiteboard is a temporary measure brought in only for These Uncertain Times. But it’s enriched our collective lives so much I’m thinking it needs to be a permanent fixture.