But that was then, and this is now, and now we’re living in a world of pandemic anxiety. I went grocery shopping yesterday, in a store, for the first time since March 13, which I’ll remember as the last normal, pre-corona day. I wore rubber gloves, and I wiped down my entire grocery cart with a sanitizing wipe and I stood back before I entered an aisle to make sure that others could pass at a distance of at least six feet.
The store was reasonably well stocked unless you were looking for toilet paper or cleaning products. Signs posted around the store reminded shoppers that quantity limits would be enforced, that reusable bags are no longer considered safe, and that everyone should maintain safe social distancing limits.
I thought that the gloves might be overkill, but most of the other shoppers were wearing them too; and some shoppers were also wearing face masks. Even with face masks, I’d have recognized my friends, but I didn’t see anyone I knew. I got groceries for my family; as well as my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, and an elderly neighbor. Then I went home.
*****
Oh my gosh! OK, Governor Hogan, I got the message! We all got the damn message!
It’s 3 PM on Monday now. I’m working from home because that’s where I work now, and the Public Safety Alert alarm just blasted out of every single electronic device in this house. And we have a lot of fucking electronic devices. We had already seen the stay-at-home order, so it wasn’t news, but thanks for letting us know, in a particularly traumatic way, just in case.
This is the first day that this really started to get to me, and not just because of the air raid siren that just blew out the speakers on my phone. I’ve been on Facebook too much lately; which is to say that I’ve been on Facebook. I’ve begun to snooze certain of my friends who seem to sit in front of their TVs (or maybe they have ticker-tape machines in their houses), and post bold-headline alerts with the latest testing numbers and the overnight death toll and the finger-wagging stay-at-home-and-save-lives reminders from every public figure in the United States. I know I know I know, and I don’t need to know anymore, so I’m cutting off updates from these people until at least the end of next month. If you’re one of those people, you know who you are, and you’re dead to me until May.
*****
OK, it’s Tuesday now, the first full day of Governor Hogan’s stay-at-home order. Or is it shelter-in-place order? Or quarantine order? I don’t know. So far it’s no different from every other day since March 13.
It’s also the last day of March and about 20 degrees colder than yesterday. I don’t remember how March came in but it’s going out like an asshole, and you can tell it I said so. I actually wore gloves on my thoroughly washed hands today. At least we’re still allowed outside.
I just read a list of 52 recommended novels for quarantine-reading. Today feels like it belongs in a novel. Chilly and silent; a solid gray sky with no sign of rain, and newly green grass dotted with purple violets and bright sunny dandelions. It feels like something should happen. It feels like a day that a character would recount in a first-person-narrated prologue to an epic novel; a day that the character would remember as the last day of a passing era or the first day of a new one.
*****
April 1. Not funny. I'm in the car now. My husband has to pick up his police car from the garage, and I'm riding with him so that he can drive back. We'll see if I remember how to drive.
Today hasn't been a particularly good day. I'm working every day and trying to keep everyone sane and positive and it's harder than I thought it would be. And if one more person posts an aggressively upbeat reminder to enjoy the downtime or take the opportunity to learn a new skill, or (my favorite) practice "self-care," I think I'm going to lose my damn mind. No wonder the whole Internet hates white women. Only a privileged white woman doesn't know that self care requires both money and time. Some of us have enough of the former, at least for now; and some of us have far too much of the latter but not much of the former. If you’re able to spend this unwanted world shutdown meditating and exercising and organizing and reading the great books and attending law school online and learning how to play the harpsichord and practicing a 14-fucking-step Korean skin care regimen, then good for you. I just don’t want to read about it, and I absolutely for sure don’t want to see pictures.
*****
So that was fun, right? It’s Thursday now and my outlook has improved. But this is still a long week, made up of long days, in what I suspect will be the longest April of my entire life. And I’m not a fan of April under any circumstances.
My sister and I have been entertaining one another with virtual drinking games. We have to “drink” every time we see a FB or other social media post in a certain number of categories. Our current favorite is the war hero/police officer/one-eyed, three-legged diabetic geriatric service dog with an expired flea collar who can’t get one like or share. We spent Sunday cracking ourselves up captioning ugly dog photos.
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| Why can't this furry son of a bitch get one fucking like or share? What the fuck is the matter with you people? |
We didn’t make fun of first responders, but I can’t say with certainty that we won’t. A few more weeks in quarantine and there’s no telling what depths we’ll sink to. We’re the worst.
*****
Did you ever see the handwashing video in which a person puts on latex gloves, and then covers her hands with a black dye? The video pauses every few seconds so that the handwasher can show the viewer how much of the gloves’ surface remains clean even after what looks like a pretty thorough application of dye. The point being, of course, that where handwashing is concerned, we’re all doing it wrong. Or rather, we were. Because now, I’m performing at least 30 CDC-style handwashes every day, and my hands are a bit of a mess. But I appreciate them more because I’m spending so much time thinking about them. They’re not much to look at but they work really well. I almost think with my hands, if that makes any sense at all. It’s a writing thing.
*****
It’s 4 o’clock on Friday afternoon, three weeks in. Is it three weeks? It is. I’m finishing work soon, but taking a break to get all of this out of my head and into my very clean hands and onto the page where maybe you’ll read it or maybe you won’t. Another weekend on lockdown. I like hanging around with my family but I miss the rest of the world. But the neighbor ladies might need more groceries, so there’s that. And I do have lots of things to read.
*****
Saturday again, one week later. I have four or five writing tasks to complete. Sometimes, I switch back and forth among several projects, but I decided this morning that I would force myself to complete at least two things, without stopping to write or read anything else. For me, this is easier said than done. Adult ADD, I assure you, is a real thing. But I succeeded in getting two drafts finished. Then I gave myself a manicure, so my nails look shiny and neat as they tap across the keyboard. God help me--meditation and 14-step Korean skincare can’t be far behind. At least I will spare you the pictures.
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