#24 The Enemy
Since becoming a writer, my office has been my living room. It does not have the views other rooms have, and it is much noisier as well, but it is closer to the main door in case anyone rings the bell and to the coffee machine, which I consider one of my work colleagues, together with the two family dogs. The coffee maker makes my days easier for obvious reasons, and the dogs usually sleep close to my table and demand some attention from time to time, as any good colleague would do (the attention part, not the napping.)
I had planned for today to be my first serious day at work in 2025—Happy New Year, by the way. I set all my gear on the table: notebooks, a pen, and a laptop. I put my finger on the keyboard, and when I was about to start writing, a shadow crossed my living room. There it was, again, my archnemesis, my worst enemy, and my nightmare: the ball of dust dancing in front of me, taunting me.
The holidays have been lovely, and we had a full house with family visiting us, so today was the first day I was finally alone and calm, and that’s when “the ball” decided to attack as if a conglomerate of dust and dog hair could think which could be the best way to ruin my productive morning. I thought about letting it roam free, but the damned thing did not stop, and every time any of my dogs moved around, there it went the ball, floating peacefully in front of me as if it was saying, “What are you going to do about this?”
Like Marty McFly, I could never stand being called a coward, and I stood up and chose my weapon, the broom, which was a terrible decision. Brooms are cool for picking the fallen leaves when I forget to water the plants, but trying to catch the dust of my house with one is as useless as a bucket in the Titanic. The more I moved the broom, the more dust balls I spotted. I did not know I lived in the desert… that’s what it seemed, as if I lived in one of those old western movies. I decided to change to the heaviest artillery and grabbed the vacuum, convinced that it would solve my issue in less than a minute, but that did not happen. The illusion of a powerful cleaning tool is that everything will be done in no time, but the more I walked around, the more I felt dust, hairs, and crumbles called for me. Once I vacuumed downstairs and arrived at the hall, I looked at the stairs. I cleaned each step, knowing that, once upstairs, I would face my kids’ rooms and the bathrooms. I wanted to write, but at this point, the vacuum’s handle was somehow superglued to my hand, and I kept on going, dreading every single millisecond of my existence. I should be writing, I thought, and then the Universe heard my call. The vacuum cleaner stopped working, and a message appeared on the display: clean the filter.
No way, I told myself. I walked down the stairs, hung my cleaning partner, and decided I was not even thinking about it, at least not for a while. I sat and looked again at the screen and thought how easy it is to lose control, even when you’re determined to have a productive morning. When I worked in an office, I had colleagues who complained about noises or inconvenient questions from other colleagues. I, working at home, complain when I decide to get coffee, and the washing machine reminds me there are clothes inside that need to be dried.
My son asked me yesterday if I miss working in an office surrounded by people. I told him I do sometimes, mostly because I did not have to vacuum the floor.
