One thing you learn when you're self-employed and working from home is that it is entirely possible to wear the same brown, zip-in-the-front sweater every day for two weeks straight and not offend anybody. Not even yourself. Oh, you still change the t-shirt underneath, of course. On a daily basis. Because you're no animal, after all. But the sweater? The jeans? The footwear? Why change them? Who are you trying to impress? The mail carrier? Who is she to judge? She wears the same thing everyday, too. The bottom line is nobody knows. Because all of your "face-to-face" conversations take place via the phone, and while you have a very real appearance to yourself in the mirror, your appearance to the five people conferencing with you on a Friday morning at 8 am from different parts of the US is completely imaginary. To these people, your state is forever fixed in their consciousness, and you are always, at any given time, sitting in front of your computer, beneath an array of florescent lighting, wearing business casual, and sipping from a coffee mug that says, I hate Mondays or You want it when?! They don't know that only seconds ago you were putting the garbage out and that currently you're lying on your back doing some stretches on the berber carpet in your spare room while they go on about whether or not the icon looks better on the right or left, or if a certain word or phrase requires quotation marks around it. And you probably should care about these things. But you don't. And now you're throwing a squishy ball at the ceiling. Or watching the Obama speech in Philly (muted of course). Or applying some apricot jam to a gluten-free biscuit which you made earlier that morning. And suddenly you come to your senses and realize that—god-dammit—all this time you've been on this call, and your coffee cup has been empty. So you place it in your palm and weigh it there and regard its cold, vacant interior with sadness, and then you shuffle into the kitchen to make another cappuccino while the voices continue through your earpiece. And in the kitchen, you mute the phone, and you use this time you have to yourself to reflect upon your life and contemplate the finer details of this existence you've chosen. And, in that moment, it occurs to you that perhaps you've grown unhealthily attached to your blue, paint-speckled crocs. Because you actually noticed this morning that you felt uneasy and scared at the thought of putting on real shoes. And your reluctance to take off those crocs to do the normal things people do—like shower, or sleep—could be an indication that things are getting a little out of control. And, okay, you do take them off for those activities. But you have a suspicion it's only because your wife is there. And you don't want to alarm her.

And while the espresso machine pushes the silky brown stuff into your cup and your phone is on mute and the people on the other end are continuing to talk and talk, you gaze outside. And you realize that it's quickly becoming spring out there. And pretty soon you're going to need to get that lawn thing figured out. Because where you come from, men take their lawns seriously. And there's this whole business of laying down mulch and, well, when exactly should that happen? And then there's the lawnmower you need to purchase. And the trimmer. And probably a leaf-blower would be useful—even now, even in spring—to get rid of the leftovers from last year that are under your deck. And come to think of it, you should really get a rake. And some fertilizer and a fertilizer application device. And you'll store all of this in the empty shed out back. Or rather, the shed you hope is empty. Because you've yet to look inside of it. And that's probably something you should have done by now. But every time you've thought to do it, there's been a river of ice or water between your house and it. And so you've figured it's not going anywhere, and you'll take a look inside when the time comes. And maybe now that time has come. Because you do live in Soprano country. And sheds are great places to store a great many things, not just lawn equipment. And the more you think about it, the more daunting it seems. And maybe it's best to just keep it closed up. And to not deal with it. And maybe somehow spring won't actually come this year. And the lawn won't grow. And you can just keep the shed empty—in your mind.

And just then a question comes your way from over the phone line, interrupting your quiet lawn musings. It seems your opinion is requested. So you de-mute. And you tell the phone—and hopefully the people on the other end of it—what you think. And there's no response, and you realize that people aren't picking up what you're laying down. And it's not even that what you said was all that technical. It's just that you're the "technical guy," and people's eyes tend to glaze over and their ears go all deaf when you start uttering phrases. Because even though it's these people's jobs to deal with things like Web sites, and to sit on committees to help populate them with content, they refuse to learn the language necessary to talk about them in any meaningful way. And so you find yourself using words and speaking in tongues that you haven't used since 2001. And that whole plea of "I'm not that tech savvy, so you'll need to explain this to me in laymen's terms" is one you've heard uttered hundreds of times, but this particular time, you want to reach through the phone and shake them and say, "All I'm talking about here is an email form and when you click "submit" it emails the information you entered to another person! I'm not asking you to program the thing, just to imagine it on the site!" And you consider asking this person if not knowing how to bake bread from scratch or slaughter a pig means they don't know how to talk about a ham sandwich. But then you think better of it and you patiently repeat what you said in a different way. And there's a silent pause and then somebody suggests that we get Bob on the phone. Because Bob is technical. And he'll understand. He'll understand the concept of ... an email form. But you don't get upset, because you've had this conversation before, a million times actually, and chances are, at the rate you're going, you'll have it again. And so you take a sip of your coffee beverage and you eye the Dewars and wonder if 8:30 in the morning is too early for "Happy Hour."

If you look closely at the backyard of your soul, you'll find a shed. And it's something you've gazed at a million times before and it's always remained closed and mysterious. And surrounded by ice. Familiar, but strange. Holding so much promise, but surrounded by challenge and danger. You think you may have a key to it somewhere, but you're not really sure where it is, and even if you found it, you're not sure you want to know what's inside. Because it could be something you're not ready to find, and then you'll have to deal with whatever it is that's in there. And if there's nothing? If it's empty? An entirely different problem. The potential to do the wrong thing, or worse, to do the right thing poorly. And so even though the ice is melting and the opportunity is ripe to go out and see what you can do in this new place, the temptation is to stay in these other rooms you've occupied, and walk in your crocs in the well-worn paths that connect one room to the other. Until you wake up one morning and realize that safe is another word for dead. And pretty soon there'll be a lawn growing around you whether you want it to or not.

Rebirth. Renewal. It's happening, brother. And you're missing it. And another couple years of this and you'll be in the weeds. And you won't even be able to see the shed. And the other paths will be that much more worn. And it's only going to get harder to tread someplace new.

And it's time, brother—it's time to figure this thing out.

So you hang up from your call and you go upstairs and you put on a different sweater. Because you have to start somewhere. And tomorrow maybe you'll take on the shed.

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