When I started working from home in Year of Our Lord Cher Two Thousand and Twenty, I thought it would be temporary. You see, there was a pandemic that started in that year. It was pretty dramatic. Some of you might remember reading about it.

Then a job change occurred wherein I began working for a tech company that decided I was too ugly to be in an office with other people so I was simply Permanent Dude Who Works From Home.

For my first year at the new job I sometimes wondered if this was all a scam or a fever dream or perhaps both because I never met a single coworker in person. Instead, the powers that be just sent me a laptop in the mail and they were like "please do lawyer stuff on this." And then I entered six thousand passwords to log into twenty thousand things and just started doing lawyer stuff. Like tapping my finger to my chin and looking upward in thoughtful contemplation before typing "it depends" into an email reply for someone looking for advice.

I figured the job was probably real because money did start appearing in my bank account, but it didn't quite feel real because, again, I went a full year before I met a single coworker.

Finally, last summer, I traveled for a conference where I'd meet colleagues and have colleague conversations in which I'd make risky jokes and then spend the next several months wondering if I shouldn't have done that. The most stressful part of attending this conference was it required me to wear Real Clothes again, something I had not done since the day before that first person did that first cough in 2020.

What are Real Clothes (a defined term) you ask? It might be easier to answer that question by telling you what I have worn as my daily costume for nearly half a decade.

You see, I roll out of bed wearing a grey t-shirt and black shorts that have at least one to four holes in them. Then I sit atop an office chair typing "it depends" into emails all day, including regular breaks where I lie on the floor with Duncan and Louie, petting them and telling them in detail the apocryphal stories of their births (immaculate conception, my labor pains, angels appearing to name them, that sort of thing). Sometime in the afternoon I remove my uniform and put on athletic gear so I can go walk around a gym until it seems like it probably counted as a workout. Then I come back home and put on a new black or grey t-shirt and holy shorts, which I will then wear until I arrive at the gym a day later.

You may call me a slob. You may cease reading this website. But you cannot stop me from living this way, for I am a very stubborn man who has no shame.

What happened when I pulled out Real Clothes to pack for this conference is I discovered that my Real Clothes had mysteriously shrunk several sizes since I last wore them. I don't know how this happened. There's probably a law of physics that can explain it. Or one of the Articles of Faith. All I know is Real Clothes no longer fit my real body.

Listen. This is not going to become a body shaming website. I hereby shant pass any judgment on the reality of the situation that I, man who works from home, seem to have slowly experienced the effects of only walking nine steps per day for several years. What I am going to do, however, is acknowledge that I'm 40, my blood pressure is basically a phone number, and I would like to live long enough to see Skylar finish meeting every person in America and then calling them "A GODDESS."

And so, upon realizing my Real Clothes no longer fit, I decided I needed to try to mimic my old life again as well as possible, which includes, you know, moving around a bit throughout the day.

I don't think I really realized how much I actually walked back when I was among the people. Sure, I drove to the office because I guess I used to hate the planet. But then I'd walk from the parking garage to the elevator. I'd wander the place getting coffee and sticking my head in colleagues' offices so I could say things like "working hard or hardly working he he he" and just being really popular and stuff.

There was just more space to wander when I worked in a stuffy office than I do at home.

And so, I began a daily routine that includes a morning walk to a coffee shop. It's basically my favorite part of the work day at this point. I put in headphones to listen to mindless podcasts or that one Cranberries song from the beginning of You've Got Mail (so I can pretend I'm Kathleen Kelly and I'm heading to my quaint children's bookstore, obviously). And I march my little legs at a pace that screams "new year, new me!" all the way to the barista's counter where I order green tea, which tastes bad but makes me feel like I'm successful for some reason.

Then I sit in the most prominent spot in the coffee shop with my laptop, typing "it depends" with more and more confidence because that's what happens after you turn 40. Even though I don't know any of the people around me, I pretend they are my coworkers/best friends and I invent backstories for them (everyone is having an affair with everyone else and they all really like me). I stay at the coffee shop until noon, and then I walk home to tell Duncan and Louie their birth stories (which lately have included a lot more singing than they used to).

Listen. I know I'm still a man works from home and doesn't wear Real Clothes. I know none of you are garbage monsters who wear pajamas all day. I know I'm not really Kathleen Kelly (I could never pull off that hair flip).

But goddammit. It's 2024 and here I am, somehow still having it all.

~It Just Gets Stranger