In late 2022, I did something seemingly stupid and brilliant. Since then, it’s come to my attention that only a select few people understand my decision. I know right away who these understanders are because halfway through my first sentence of explanation, they nod, cut me off, and say something like, “I get it, I get it. I’m the same way.” My reaction to the understanders is always the same.
“I heard you have an office now. How come?”
“Well, I’ve been working from home since 2009, and I just…”
“I get it. I TOH-TUH-LEE get it. I feel the same way.”
“FAAAACK-UHHH!” I scream and grunt simultaneously (I call it a scrunt), looking up at the glorious sky of commiseration. (The extra syllable of emphasis at the end is added for dramatic effect, just like teenagers do:
“You need to take your little brother to the movies.”
“NOOOO-UHH!!
“Did you clean your room?”
“YESSSUHHH!”)
Every word I say to these supporters who “get it” from that point on is met with a nodding head. They’re like my life-size hype bobbleheads. They let me ramble, and I watch them nod. The convos feel so good we have a cigarette when we’re done. Those convos go like this usually:
“I have a house with four empty bedrooms, and I just can’t…[head nod] stay on task to save my life…[head nod] It seems crazy to have a big empty house and pay for an office, but…[vigorous head nod]…I’ve tried setting up an office in every room…[head nod] and I was still stuck.”
Thank Buddha, my spouse is one of these hype-bobbleheads. He’s the husband version of the Playtex 18-hour bra when it comes to being supportive.
“I can’t with this home office anymore,” I told him one day.
“Ok,” he says with a shrug.
“I need to find a space outside this house.”
“OK.”
“I’ll try and keep rent to a minimum.”
“OK.”
“I might need a butler, too.”
“Not OK.”
I didn’t get the butler, but I have a real office I go to every day, where I sit at a desk filled with office items, not old socks and junk mail. Most importantly, I bask in the feeling of not being at home, trying to work. Instead, I’m at my office, working, wearing underwear.
Working in an office away from home has a weight to it that being at home in unmatched slippers with a dog sleeping on a bed next to me during a Zoom meeting cannot provide. It reminds me of what my granny used to say about dating co-workers: Don’t shit where you eat. By that, she meant don’t make a mess where you make a living. Same situation, reversed: Don’t eat where you shit.
Remember 2020, when the tsunami of remote workers came slamming into offices everywhere? I was already ten years into that lifestyle. I understand that home offices are optimum for some people. I have friends who work from home and love it, even several years in.
For me, it was time to go to work. Since I began working outside my home 18 months ago, my writing and editing services biz has grown significantly. I’ve learned that I can stay on task, and I don’t have a productivity problem.
All it took was getting an office to know my brain isn’t gone, as I had suspected. It’s just going (to work).
Leave a Reply