I have a well-trained poker face. I am a master of indifference. I wear nothing on my extremely professional sleeve. There is no smiling in journalism.

To be fair, there’s no smirking, grimacing, screaming, crying or laughing either; objectivity is the core of the profession. I only have emotions when the news stops.

Sure, I can pretend to be completely detached, but I am more than an articulate robot. I must admit that sometimes I get sloppy and have feelings on the weekends. Then I feel guilty for having had them, and the realization that the guilt is another emotion hurdles me into a vicious cycle that can only be cured by hours of streaming CNN. I know I’m ready to return to work when I can sit through “Anchorman” and find myself disgusted by Ron Burgundy’s unprofessional nature.

If all else fails and I’m still trapped with Will Ferrell in a glass case of emotion, I watch Dan Rather and Connie Chung videos on YouTube until I’m numb. Yes, journalists are a fun bunch.

Even when you claim to have no interests, as a student journalist, conflicts of those same “non-interests” are inevitable. The ethical issues can be complicated.

Enter the recent contract negotiations between the American Association of University Professors and Oakland University.

As a student, I wanted nothing more than a timely resolution so I could start classes as scheduled. I’d eventually like to graduate; it is why I’m enrolled in the first place.  As a journalist, I wanted nothing more than a strike so I could cover the picket lines. Conflict makes for great news, and I missed the last one.

It was exhausting; one of the reasons I chose journalism was so that I could avoid taking sides. I’m notoriously indecisive.

It was a long week at The Post, and I remained divided on the issue for most of it. I’d had breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the basement of the OC several days in a row. I found the time to give myself a small course in union law and simplify the arguments. I also watched my normally composed colleagues resort to delirious attempts at the cha-cha slide in wheelie chairs while we awaited a decision.

By Thursday night, we were fading fast and I was growing tired of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and luke warm Diet Coke. If there were going to be any further extensions of the deadline, we might be driven to complete insanity, or worse, another poorly choreographed line dance executed at the expense of the office furniture.

So I thank the AAUP and OU for coming to a tentative agreement; having to cover a strike might have pushed us all over the edge. The office wheelie chairs can only handle so much crazy per week.