the ocean

My firm has announced that they want us all to be back in the office 50% of the time by September. This is pleasing to me, for while I am loath to give up the simple pleasure of working from my bed when the mood strikes, I also don't want to end up in the hospital with severe muscle wasting. As much as I appreciate the efficiency that comes without distractions from co-workers, I also easily see now how isolation turns people into unkempt, manifesto-drafting weirdos. And it will be good to get away from my kitchen every once in a while, so as to not eat its entire contents. My deepening obsession with the many cheeses of the world simply can't be good for anyone.

So yeah, I think 50% is a good compromise that preserves the convenience of working at home when, say, your Orkin man is coming or there's a six-year-old episode of Chicago Fire you really want to see, while reinforcing the idea that we live in a society, which requires occasional acts of social politeness and personal grooming. But I am not sure that my co-workers are all that anxious to get back to the office, even part time, if recent history is any indication. The firm set up a series of lunches to bribe us to come back to the office; the first was attended by four people and the second by just me and the office manager. And while that conversation was undoubtedly one for the ages, it's probably not exactly what the powers that be had in mind.

I get it: it's summer and people want to lie in the sun with their Sue Grafton, not look at spreadsheets on dual monitors. But when the temperatures have cooled and people are transitioning to regret over the chunky highlights their hairstylists talked them into, I'll be waiting for them at the office, exactly 50% of the time.