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yuki_onna shared earlier today)
I have learned that I hate working at home. Two consecutive office jobs in a row, I've had the option to work remotely via laptop. Both times, I lasted all of three days before the combination of being incommunicado (even though 98% of my direct communication takes place via phone or text) and having to use hell's little carpal tunnel and blindness device -- I mean, a laptop -- made me trade in not wearing anything but shorts and having access to good coffee for putting on shoes and pants and making a 13 mile commute.
Part of it was the lack of structure, and part of it was just the overwhelming feeling of stress: as the lead member of my team, I can't let go and trust things not to fall to shit if I'm not there to keep my hand on the tiller. Irrational or not, this is just the way I am (and why I will make a terrible, horrible, awful, no good, very bad manager). I honestly get a little twitchy if I go out for lunch.
On the other hand, when I'm on vacation, or it's my weekend not to be on call? The Office Does Not Ex Ist.1 I draw a bright line between "at work" and "not at work" and attempting to erase or straddle it by working at home turns me into the social equivalent of a rabid wolverine.
I am a complete recluse when I'm out of the office; I'm not sure I've even been to the completely amazing goth club here in Tampa in like two years, because I just can't be arsed to get out of the house (also, I am tired in the evening after working all day and working out, and do not wish to be surrounded by loud strangers and fake smog, because either I will be surly, or I will want to dissolve my surliness in adult beverages; the former is no fun, the latter makes driving home a bad idea). So I prosecute my social life online (which is why you end up with me tweeting at you and darkening your journal, natch).
1 This apparently blows the minds of folks in upper management, when, as we're walking in from the parking garage, they ask about some email that was sent around after-hours the day before, or on a weekend, and I have no idea what they're talking about. "When I'm here, I'm here, but when I'm not, I'm *not*."
yuki_onna shared earlier today)I have learned that I hate working at home. Two consecutive office jobs in a row, I've had the option to work remotely via laptop. Both times, I lasted all of three days before the combination of being incommunicado (even though 98% of my direct communication takes place via phone or text) and having to use hell's little carpal tunnel and blindness device -- I mean, a laptop -- made me trade in not wearing anything but shorts and having access to good coffee for putting on shoes and pants and making a 13 mile commute.
Part of it was the lack of structure, and part of it was just the overwhelming feeling of stress: as the lead member of my team, I can't let go and trust things not to fall to shit if I'm not there to keep my hand on the tiller. Irrational or not, this is just the way I am (and why I will make a terrible, horrible, awful, no good, very bad manager). I honestly get a little twitchy if I go out for lunch.
On the other hand, when I'm on vacation, or it's my weekend not to be on call? The Office Does Not Ex Ist.1 I draw a bright line between "at work" and "not at work" and attempting to erase or straddle it by working at home turns me into the social equivalent of a rabid wolverine.
I am a complete recluse when I'm out of the office; I'm not sure I've even been to the completely amazing goth club here in Tampa in like two years, because I just can't be arsed to get out of the house (also, I am tired in the evening after working all day and working out, and do not wish to be surrounded by loud strangers and fake smog, because either I will be surly, or I will want to dissolve my surliness in adult beverages; the former is no fun, the latter makes driving home a bad idea). So I prosecute my social life online (which is why you end up with me tweeting at you and darkening your journal, natch).
1 This apparently blows the minds of folks in upper management, when, as we're walking in from the parking garage, they ask about some email that was sent around after-hours the day before, or on a weekend, and I have no idea what they're talking about. "When I'm here, I'm here, but when I'm not, I'm *not*."
