Me, while we were house-shopping:
It’s not a deal-breaker, but I’d really really like an office. If there were a den, or an extra bedroom, or a closet with a window, or like a foyer or something. I refuse to shut myself down in a basement to write, though. It’s too depressing.
Me, after we bought this house:
I love the house, but it sucks so much that there’s nowhere we could possibly stick an office for me. I’m not getting any work done. I’m stressed out all the time. Woe is me.
Our basement is really nice.
No with no sauce.
I’d like to have an office down there, if I were working at home.
Uh uh. You’d work anywhere. You’re like a small troll or something, lacking human sensibilities.
me, a few weeks later:
And do you know what? It’s peaceful and perfectly nice. Look, our basement windows even open! We may run into problems later (I may be veeeeery cold in the winter, and “my office” is a corner of the room that will be a play space for the children once the boxes are unpacked and they’re not able to play outside because of the weather). But for now I’m very content in my cheerful subterranean lair. “See you later!,” I announce: “I’m going to my cave!”