I live about three hours outside of downtown Washington, where I work. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, at 4 a.m., my bedroom detaches from my house. The bedroom door seals shut, and my room, sitting atop a platform on wheels, drives itself through the twists and turns of my neighborhood and onto the highway.
This all happens in near silence, and I remain fast asleep. Two hours into the journey, at 6 a.m., traveling at 90 mph, my alarm goes off. I awaken, walk from my bed to the shower — en suite — and get dressed for the workday. It’s now 6:45 a.m., and I have about 15 minutes to check e-mail while my bedroom rolls into a vast, underground garage beneath my office building. I take the long elevator ride up, and I’m at my desk at a few minutes past 7.
I put in a lot of face time with colleagues and clients during these three days, as I work at home the remainder of the week. At 3 p.m., I take the elevator down, reenter my bedroom and work at my desk for the duration of the three-hour ride home. I’m back in time for dinner with my wife and kids.
Of course, none of what you’ve just read is true. But is it the future that awaits us?
This article appeared in The Washington Post on June 17, 2015. It will be published here on June 24, 2015. Click here to read the full article.
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