Working from Home: Why I Love It, Why You Will Too

OK, so this doesn’t have much to do with marriage, but I think it will make you think.

Many people don’t know that all I do is work from home. It’s true: My only “job” now is to get up, walk into my den and start writing. Usually it’s an easy process.

But today, not so much.

Today I feel just a touch worse than a steaming, lumpy pile of dog defection.

That’s I love working from home.

I think I have that killer cold that’s all the rage in New York these days. I feel as weak as Chuck Norris is strong. The Green Goblins have invaded and they’ve taken over my nasal passages. I just arrived in Mucusville, population ME.

But here’s the cool thing: I didn’t have to work today. I could have taken the entire day off and not written a word. I didn’t have to shower and dress and put on a tie and coat to be whisked off to some cubicle by the morning mass transit.

Nope. In fact as I write this it is 1:03pm and I am still unshowered in my jammies—a pair of Snoopy sleeping pants covered with Z’s and a 3-XL black sweatshirt that keeps leaching down my arms, forcing me to pause in my typing to slide them back up.

Fuzzy bunny slippers adorn my sickly feet.

But here’s the thing: No matter what my career choice I would feel this way today. Most people have to either take a sick day or go in and feel awful. I just get stay home, sit here, surrounded by a pile of ping-pong ball sized wads of mucus laden used Kleenex, and just feel sorry for myself.

And I get to call this work.

Has anyone seen my blankie?

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