I work from home, which sounds great until you realize it means I spend eight hours a day staring directly at all the things I don’t have time to do.
The laundry basket is right there. The dishes from breakfast are right there. I vacuumed recently enough that I remember doing it, and somehow the floor already needs it again.
But I’m working. Like, actually working.
I’m a whole manager. I have a team of seven people I’m responsible for. There are meetings, emails, questions, problems, deadlines, and seven entire adults who, for reasons I’m still unclear on, look to me for answers.
Meanwhile, five feet away there’s a basket of clean laundry that’s been waiting three business days for management to address the situation.
Apparently working from home has tricked some part of my brain into believing I should also have a clean house because I’m home all day.
Ma’am. I have a job.
I cannot manage seven people, do laundry, clean the kitchen, vacuum, make appointments, figure out what’s for dinner, and remember whatever random thing somebody told me they needed three days ago at the exact same time.
And yet, somehow, this feels like the expectation.
We’re supposed to work full time. Keep the house clean. Raise good humans. Maintain a marriage. Exercise. Cook actual meals. Remember everyone’s appointments. Have hobbies. Have friends. Drink enough water. Get enough sleep.
And apparently we’re also supposed to look put together while doing all of it.
What the fuck do you mean I need to do my hair too?
Makeup?
An actual outfit?
I put on clean leggings. I thought we were doing pretty good.
More importantly, where are you all getting the additional 42 hours in a day to do all of this?
Because I’ve checked. Mine still has 24.
I’m suspicious of anyone who claims they’re getting eight hours of sleep, working full time, exercising regularly, keeping their house clean, cooking dinner every night, maintaining healthy relationships, and showing up places with curled hair.
Something is being sacrificed. I don’t know what it is, but I want records.
Working from home does make parts of life easier. I don’t have a commute. I can throw laundry in during lunch. I can wear leggings to a meeting, and nobody has to know I’ve worn essentially the same outfit four days this week.
But there’s absolutely no separation between the place where I manage seven people and the place where apparently no one else knows how to replace a roll of toilet paper.
I finish a full day of work, close my laptop, turn my chair approximately six inches, and immediately get promoted to my next position.
Congratulations. Your shift at Work is over. Your shift at House has begun.
And House has apparently been understaffed for years.
I’ve considered firing the maid, but unfortunately that’s also me.
Her performance has been slipping. She’s constantly behind on laundry, the kitchen somehow requires her attention seventeen times a day, and she’s been known to look directly at a dusty surface and decide that’s a problem for Future Maid.
Frankly, I don’t know why we keep her around.
Probably because she works for free and we’re on a budget.
I don’t even want a perfectly clean house. We are not aiming for magazine-worthy living with four kids over here. I just want clean-ish, functional, and preferably no one leaving a cup on the counter approximately four seconds after I cleaned the kitchen.
That’s not unreasonable.
I don’t think.
So if anyone figures out where they’re handing out the additional 42 hours per day, please let me know.
Until then, I’ll be over here answering emails in leggings while pretending I don’t see the laundry basket.
