We all love them—ehem, W-A-L-T.
From LOL and WTF, to the ever forgotten FML, three letters can often describe what only the heart can feel. Or at least what we’re too high to type out.
But no more powerful is a three letter acronym than the ever allusive WFH. It’s sexy, coveted, and mostly, leaves a lot up for debate—mainly...Are you? Working? 🤨
I’m now entering my fourth week of working from home, or as I like to call it,
~Taking Important Business Calls
In My Underwear™~
And believe me, everything has changed...
For one, my house is now a WeWork, in that there’s no personal space and it’s not in our best interest to go public. Zoom is our Church. Our God? WiFi. We worship two hour lunch breaks and wearing jeans is a sin. 9-5 is a mere suggestion and drinking on the job, a requirement. I’m both the cleaning lady and the CEO. My coworkers are a plush koala I stole from my ex, and a houseplant I suspect is plotting to kill me. My HR rep is just me complaining about myself, to myself, in the mirror.
In other words, it’s pure chaos.
And yeah, there are some benefits, like waking up at noon, not hearing “check out my sweet digs”
every time Brian from marketing moves over a desk, and of course, not making eye contact with my boss through the stall door crack in the women’s restroom. But in general, it’s nice to have a routine.
Here’s the general breakdown of my schedule over the past few weeks:
Wake up. Grab my phone. Administer a lethal amount of blue light directly into my pores.
Check Instagram for 10 min to 4 hours, depending on how depressed I am.
Drink a cappuccino. Or maybe it’s a latte. Either way, I miss Starbucks.
Open a tab in my browser. Look up "Which celebrities are Scientologists now?" Spend the next 3 hours researching a dissertation’s worth of Wikipedia pages.
Write said dissertation.
Check my emails/Slack. Get annoyed at anyone who asks me to do anything work-related, because I am at-home, and that is-rude.
Open and close my fridge so quickly and so many times that I have a food seizure.
Get some actual work done. By that I mean, open a Google Doc and immediately take a 2 month sabbatical.
It’s 3pm now. I look up the most complex and time consuming dinner recipe I can find and conclude it’s time to start prepping. I throw my laptop away and get choppin’.
Delegate all culinary tasks. Pour myself a glass of wine that many amateurs might call a “whole bottle.”
Post a happy hour photo on my Insta story along with the “Ask Me Anything” feature. No one asks me anything. That makes me sad.
Get woken up by the Church of Scientology’s hit man at my doorstep.
Write this list to warn the others that come after me.
Add one more item to this list so it doesn't end on an odd and evil number.
The thing is, working from home always sounds more ideal than it actually is. WFH is like that popular girl in middle school who everyone wants to be friends with—she sounds cool, but when she finally invites you over, you realize she’s sad and her dad’s an alcoholic. Also, she has an eating disorder. But, like, we knew that.
So where have I been? I’ve been working from my ex boyfriend’s parents house. Before you freeaak, I should probably mention that he’s also my current boyfriend, but we did break up at one point.
And it hasn't been so bad–I love my boyfriend's parents. They’re perpetually trying to remember the name of the movie they saw last week, starring “what’s his name” from “that one movie” with the “girl who got a botched nose job.”
Anyways, all this goes to show that working from home can suck, but it doesn’t have to. Just don’t go braless on your Zoom call with your AC fully blasting. I learned that lesson the hard way.