Desk Distress

You see, there was the small matter of my desk.

I refused to use it.

I would hide on my couch and avoid it as much as possible. I couldn’t get myself to sit at that damn desk and write.

I thought about it for a long while, and decided the problem was the desk itself.

It was one of those fancy adjustable desks. It could lift itself up quite high, but it wouldn’t go down low enough for my liking. That put upward pressure on my arms, which pushed on my shoulders, which I believe to be the cause of all my issues.

Yes. Of course! It was the desk’s fault all along.

Luckily, I had an older desk which adjusted to a much lower height. I had given that one to my wife. I asked her if we could swap, explaining the matter in great detail. It was a complex issue, so I had to give her the full state of affairs.

“Sure,” she said. She seemed unconcerned. I walked away hiding my sheepish smile, knowing I had won a great victory. Only truly gifted people, such as myself, could know the significance of this decision!

With great effort, I swapped the desk. (Alright, that is a lie: I hired a TaskRabbit to do it. I have no interest in falling prey to the perils of a pivot.)

I had my old desk back. My setup was finally complete. It was a furniture masterpiece, ready for me to dive in and create my immaculate gifts to the world.

There was only one problem: I still wouldn’t sit at my desk.

Despite the invitation of its beauty and ergonomic comfort, I wouldn’t set foot in my office.

I had lied to myself. My desk was never the problem.

There were other hindrances that kept me from writing. I made up the problem of the desk to distract myself from the truth.

I must admit: It was a pretty good lie. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—I am a storyteller, after all.

I’m happy to report that my self-delusions are now firmly behind me.

All is well.

The future is bright.

Except, there is the small matter of my chair…