I do not eat Gorgonzola.

At least not to the extent that Emma Teitel does, but I did relate to her column in a recent MacLean’s, where she writes about the perils from working from home — as a writer.

Teitel writes: “But in the end, the worst part about working from home isn’t that we’ll most likely devolve into a sub-species of Gorgonzola-scarfing, PJ-wearing daywalkers incapable of making eye contact. It’s that we’ll have erased for good what little remained of that precious line between personal and professional, home and away. The most persistent myth about working from home is that it’s the perfect nod to work-life balance, a benevolent gift from a progressive employer, but there’s nothing remotely progressive about living in your office—which you technically do if you work from home.”

Teitel writes that if you work from home, you think about work all the time, and check your email obsessively.  

That is not quite true for me. It’s not that my office is in my home, it’s that my home is in my office. The worst part about working from home for me are the socks. As in, the odd sock pile that squats in the corner of my office, almost panting for my attention.

It knows darn well that it is full of pairs that don’t really need to be there and full of singles that have made this pile their permanent home and will never, ever find their mate.

I can be organized and super-efficient in my work — very disciplined at shutting it off at the end of the day — and one furtive glance over my shoulder reminds me of who I really am. A woman with 79 odd socks in her office. So, it’s not that I can’t stop checking my emails, like Teitel writes. It’s more that I’ve had to shut my eyes to my house falling apart around me as I work. It’s still worth the trade-off though.