Goodbye, January 2021. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.

Thursday, January 28. A week ago, we thought we were “on lockdown.” We thought we were “quarantining.” We were staying at home most of the time. We were going only where we really needed to go, when we needed to go; and we always wore our masks. Two people in our household (my husband and older son) work outside the house, but my younger son and I attend school and work (respectively) 100 percent from home. The outside-the-house people went to work and came right home and showered and changed; and the inside-the-house people didn’t make many unnecessary excursions. We thought we were pretty restricted. 

And then my husband and older son both got sick, and both of them tested positive for COVID, and so we learned what “lockdown” and “quarantine” really mean. I haven’t left my house for four days, not even to get groceries or take my daily walk.

*****

Friday, January 29. We’re on day 5 now. They are both starting to feel a bit better, though they’re both very tired. We’re all very tired. It’s Friday afternoon, and just about to get dark. We have about 15 minutes of rosy golden fading daylight on the coldest day of the season so far, and we’re all in various states of undress. I showered this morning, as I always do, and I put on a wool sweater with the flannel pajama pants that I wore to sleep last night. It’s cold enough today that I had to put a pair of leggings on under the pajama pants. So I’m right now wearing a wool sweater and long-sleeved t-shirt, pajama pants with leggings, and two pairs of socks with slippers; and I’m warm enough. I’m even comfortable. But I feel sloppy. I worked today, and I did just about as much work as I usually do, but I don’t feel the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that normally accompanies the end of the workday. I feel like a person who sat around the house in her pajamas until all of a sudden, daylight faded and night fell and I was still in the clothes that I slept in the night before.

*****

Saturday, January 30. And now it’s Saturday morning. Guess what I’m wearing. Yeah. 

I will get dressed today; all the way dressed, and not half clothes and half pajamas. I know that this is the work-from-home look of 2020 and now 2021, but there are mental health downsides to sitting around in your pajamas all day. 

It’s freezing cold again; like legitimately 32-degree freezing cold, not the average winter chill that I tend to describe as freezing cold. We’re expecting snow. The other members of the household are even looking forward to it. And I guess I am too. It’ll be a change of scenery. It’ll look pretty and sparkly. Anyway, it’s cold enough today that many of the usual neighborhood walkers and runners will stay indoors and since I myself don’t have the ‘rona, I might venture out, masked and distant, for some fresh air and exercise. Maybe I’ll finally, finally, FINALLY finish that book list. I have time. I have plenty of time. I have all the time in the world. 

*****

Sunday, January 31. It did snow, and I did go out, crossing the street every time I saw someone coming. The snow continues to fall, and it’s pretty, but not sparkly. The sky is pale, almost-white gray, and there’s no sunlight to reflect off the snow and give it that magical sparkle that only lasts until the shoveling and the plowing and the snow-playing and sledding commence. I’m looking out my family room window and I see nothing but brown and white. Snow covers every branch and limb, forming a complex spidery pattern of white on brown against white again. There’s very little wind. 

I could, I suppose, have finished that book list yesterday. But I didn’t. I did work on it, so that’s something; something that I accomplished other than disinfecting surfaces and washing bedding and responding to text messages from concerned friends and family. COVID is a stern taskmaster, I tell you what. Maybe I’ll shovel today, or maybe I’ll venture out for a walk in the snow. Or maybe I’ll finally finish that list. I don’t know why I keep putting it off. 

*****

Monday, February 1. You were a long month, January. That was no way to start a year. It’s a new month now, 2021. Do better, OK? You're on notice. 

It’s Monday now and we’re still in the tunnel, but now there’s a light at the end of it. My husband had a follow-up COVID test this morning, which was negative. My son is still experiencing symptoms, but he’s getting better, so he’ll be able to have his follow-up test in a day or so, which means that our quarantine will come to an end in a few days. And you know what I did yesterday? I cleaned, and I cooked, and I disinfected stuff, but I also finally finished the book list. I also finished another book, and I’m going to have quite a bit to say about it. I wrote some things down, so I wouldn’t forget. I learn the hard way, but I do learn. 

Summertime Weirdness

It’s Friday night. Friday nights have a different rhythm, a different atmosphere, depending on the time of year.  This is summer, so Friday night means pasta dinner at the pool pavilion, followed by pool set-up for tomorrow’s meet, followed by TV time on the couch with the kids.  An early bedtime tonight for an early warm-up tomorrow morning; a pool filled with sleepy swimmers at 7:30 AM.

It’s very green here now.  We had six months of winter, a few weeks of chilly spring, barely warmed by thin pale yellow sunlight, and now lush overripe warmth—things growing on almost every surface, black mottling on the pavement that might be dirt or might be mold.  Nothing in the swampy close-in suburbs of Washington D.C. will be really dry again until October.

Our neighborhood is filled with monster trees, 50 or more years old, 30 or more feet tall.   A sheltering, cooling canopy that could end up crushing your house--thunderstorms here are Old Testament. We belong to one of the mid-20^th century swim and tennis clubs that are hidden in neighborhoods throughout D.C., Maryland, and Virginia.  I picture myself sometimes, old and alone, clinging to dim memories of a distant and happy oasis: smiling neighbors, striped deck chairs, blue water sparkling with sunlight, ceiling fans spinning lazily in the redwood pavilion.  When I’m tired of my slightly down-at-the heels Levitt neighborhood, it’s the pool that keeps me away from the real-estate listings.

Summer just started, really, and I’m already worried about losing it. Fleeting isn’t the word. A blink and it’s over. How not to waste it, how not to lose it, how not to worry about the regret I’ll feel at the end of August, barely two months from now. We should have eaten more popsicles, should have gone to the Air and Space museum, should have chased fireflies. 

I live in the moment. It's just the wrong moment.  

The lane ropes are in place and the backstroke flags are strung across the pool, where we hope they’ll stay (a thunderstorm threatens, as usual.) The sun will be in my eyes tomorrow as I try to look serious in my blue and white stroke-and-turn judge uniform.  The meet will be over, a blink, and I’ll know that there are only a few left, even though the season is just starting.  I miss it already.