I’ve been with my wife for half of my life now. About 15 years ago, she began the job that she still has. She already worked from home twice per week before the quarantine, but I was working outside of the house most of those days. Now she works from home every day, and I’m also home every day, so I’ve seen her working more in the last month than I’ve ever seen before.

Over the 15 years since she got this job, she’s tried explaining to me what, exactly, she does. I know her title. I know the company she works for. I’ve met a lot of her coworkers. I’ve seen her office.

I am not a stupid man. She and I both have master’s degrees from the same university. Yet it’s only now, as I’ve been able to see her work firsthand, that I’m finally starting to understand what she does for a living.

It’s easy to understand what I do for a living. Just saying my job title will help about 99% of the population know exactly what I do. I’m an English teacher. See? No further explanation required.

My wife is a “project manager.” What the hell does that even mean? Has this project she’s been managing lasted 15 years? Aren’t most people who work managing a project of some sort or another? I mean, a cashier can also be described as a “project manager,” no? They’re managing the project of collecting payments from people. To a simple guy like me, “project manager” has a “meaningless corporate jargon” vibe to it.

Anyway, this quarantine has given me a chance to see what a “project manager” does all day.

Basically, she sits in front of two huge computer screens all day, conducting a lot of video conferences with the same 15–20 people, all of whom are located in various cities around the country. She’s all of these people’s boss. Every now and then, she joins a video call with 5–10 other people. These are her bosses or coworkers on the same level as she. When she’s not video conferencing with people from around the country, she’s creating spreadsheets and editing documents. She’ll spend several minutes consulting with several people about such important things as whether to use the word “adhesive,” “sticky,” or “tacky” in a sentence. Apparently, that’s a critical word choice that could cost her company millions of dollars if they choose the wrong word.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating on that last part.

Since there’s an English teacher in the house all day anyway (me), she sometimes asks me for my opinion on word choice in a sentence that she’s editing. But I think she might just be asking me so I feel included in the adult world. I’ve been spending all day with my own children, and I’m secretly jealous of her video calls where she gets to speak with other adults. The most sophisticated conversation I’ve had this week has been about Legend of Zelda lore with my 9-year-old son.