I love being a freelancer. I do. I love that I can pick up and go wherever I want whenever I want as long as I take my computer with me and I love that I never get bored with my job because things are always changing. What I don’t love: the fact that I spend about 22 hours a day in my apartment. While I could brag about the fact that I have multiple rooms from which to work (which I do, and I can brag about it because I paid my tiny-apartment dues for nine years in New York) it’s still one space—once space that I occupy alone, except for my dog Jack, my cat Eve, the occasional water bug and whoever is out there, on the other end of whatever Internet tube I happen to be traveling through at the time.
So it should come as no surprise that after nearly 10 weeks of eating almost every meal in officially (and eight months of it unofficially) I had a minor freak-out yesterday and had not one, but two, meals out.
