Ever since we have transcended to working from home full-time, the boundaries have irrevocably shifted, and the lines got blurrier and blurrier.
It will come as no shock if I tell you I spend most days in my pyjamas, typing my clever headlines away, having forgotten to remove my makeup if the day before I felt bored enough to put some on.
There will be times when I will wear nothing at all if I feel like clothes are prisons for our bodies at that particular moment. I might as well be working from my bathtub because I can no longer be bothered, and you will promptly have to face an awkward situation in which I will be covered in foam, and you will wear your fancy shirt, all proper and adulty.
If what you have to say to me can be done through a text, please do not hesitate not to call me. I mean it. My life is a beautiful mess enough as it is. I really cannot face the humiliation of having to witness my double chin on the massive display of my phone, as I am snacking and shopping online — a holy ritual which you would have most likely interrupted. Your call will probably scare me to death, make me drop my phone, and it will all end with having to buy a new one, thus becoming completely unreachable for the next unknown period of time.
And in the eventuality of me answering your call, I would probably be pissed because you interrupt me while I was doing pretty much nothing, but that will be a reason enough to make me hold a grudge against you for the next twenty centuries.
It won’t be helpful to you, and it will definitely not be helpful to me.
So how about you don’t text, either?