It’s hard to believe that nearly seven months have passed since so many New Yorkers started working exclusively from their cramped, overcrowded, and more than occasionally critter-infested apartments. Back in mid-March, I remember balking at the prospect of spending two whole weeks cooped up with my husband in our 700 square foot, air shaft-adjacent one bedroom. Little did I know, those two weeks would eventually stretch into 28—and counting.
I know, I know. Woe is me, employed and working from the comfort of my own home! But even as I made peace with the seeming permanence of my new situation, I just couldn’t bring myself to invest in a suitable home office setup. The idea of cluttering what little space I had with an unsightly standing desk felt like admitting that the pandemic had won, and that the fugue state in which so many of us were existing was here to stay.
Instead, I carted my laptop from the dining table to the couch and back again, charging cords draped perilously across the room. I’d take video calls from the table, computer propped precariously on a stack of books atop a Scrabble box, the whole structure threatening to collapse at even the slightest disturbance.
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