In which I periodically remind myself to get out of bed and work at the table
In work, as in life, I prefer to stay in–bed, that is. The more work I have to do, the more time I spend in bed, bringing all the reading and writing I need to do with me. Needless to say, the situation is far from ideal. I like closing my eyes when I think, and if I close my eyes while reclining in bed, then inevitably my mind slips away from the sentence I’m trying to construct or the argument I’m trying to iron out and I end up sleeping on the job, and the sleep is no good at all, not when it translates to limbs contorted to fit into what little space remains next to the stack of books, the laptop, and the breakfast-lunch-dinner tray, not when I wake up to another book ruined, its cover creased and its pages crumpled because of my literally falling asleep on it, and yes, not when it means no work gets done.
And so, the table. I’ve had productive relationships with tables through the years–when I sit before a table with the books, notes, and food I need arranged before me, I find that work gets done (or at least, sleep is harder to do). After years of getting by without one, I finally have a table for work at home. Now if only I can make that daily choice not to bring my work to bed and instead bring my self to the table.