By Dave Yoo
Everyone I know thinks my working out of the home is the ultimate luxury, as if I’m some spoiled brat who gets to laze around all day long in my pajamas and bunny slippers, drinking multiple mugs of tea and watching Premier League soccer games every afternoon. Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely perks to the scenario—as my own day-to-day boss, I get to make my own hours and I don’t have anyone looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m working, but those same perks are just as powerful cons. It’s not easy to push yourself when nobody’s looking. The worst disadvantage to working out of the home, however, is that I have to constantly deal with my deep-seated fear of ghosts.
I was always terrified of ghosts growing up. I was that kid who couldn’t look over at his closet with the lights off, so fearful of the paranormal that in college I always chose the far bed because I figured it would force my naïve roommate onto the frontlines when dealing with dorm ghosts that slipped under the cracks of our door. This was the main issue I was struggling with when my wife and I decided to buy our first home last year. The notion of being “house poor” until we adjusted to the increased expenses of owning a house didn’t intimidate me in the slightest; instead, I hesitated before signing the lease because I was weary of the possibility of having to fend for myself all day with the local spirits.
The reason I bring this up is because of what happened last week. I was sitting downstairs typing away in my office when I heard a door shut upstairs. Instantly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at high alert and I grabbed the letter opener on my desk and spent ten minutes mustering up the courage to venture upstairs to investigate. The guest bedroom door was the only one shut upstairs, and what creeped me out was that it’s the only carpeted room in the house, and the carpet is so thick you can’t even swing the door shut without it coming to a halt in the plush covering. I quickly peeked inside the room to make sure the bed wasn’t hovering four feet off the ground, before racing back downstairs and sitting rigid at my desk, staring unblinking at the open doorway of the office for the inevitable passing specter.
I realized that afternoon that the windows in the dining room were all open because my wife had burned some toast that morning and tried to air out the smoky kitchen before leaving for work, therefore, there was a draft in the house that was responsible for shutting the door upstairs. Despite the truth disproving my ghost theory, that night I still made my wife switch sides with me on the bed, because you can never be too careful.
“But you’ve always hated feeling scrunched up against the wall,” she said.
“I figured you’re the one who gets out of bed first every morning anyways,” I replied. “I feel bad that you have to climb out so awkwardly off the end.”
She beamed at me.
“That’s so thoughtful of you!” she said.
Sucker.
