I’d Forgotten What “A Room of One’s Own” Really Means

It took the pandemic to show me “a room of one’s own” is much more than a spatial allocation

I’ve had my own home office ever since I could afford a home large enough for one. Most of my books are there, I’ve written four books of my own in there, and last year I made the unprecedented move of putting a small bed in one corner, so I had a place to occasionally nap without the disturbance of three undisciplined dogs or our vocal cockatiel. Gradually, with my sister’s help, I cleaned up the clutter and added decorative touches. I thought I had a room of my own.

I was wrong. It took the pandemic to show me “a room of one’s own” is much more than a spatial allocation.

I’ve always been responsible for making sure the bills get paid on time and that the house stays as de-cluttered as possible (my husband spreads out his papers and other paraphernalia everywhere, no matter how many special table and storage areas I buy for him.) I’m the official phone-answerer, the one who keeps track of what groceries we need, the one who remembers everyone’s appointments. I’m the only one who cooks anything semi-nutritious. And since the pandemic, I’m the one who gets the safety supplies we need and tries to make sure my husband and daughter use them.