I'm one of the lucky ones. Other than having to make my own coffee (I will never again take building amenities for granted) and suddenly viewing everything I touch with suspicion, I have adjusted well to living in quasi-lockdown. Of course, it's only been a day.
The skies were gray all day yesterday, occasionally spitting out hybrid pellets of rain and snow. As I crossed the bridge over the river to pick up some "essentials" at Whole Foods, I glanced over at the parked tour boats, oddly colorless against the muddy gray water. It's how I've always imagined life in the pre-war thirties, a black and white newsreel, as if the sun had not yet been invented. The bare shelves only added to the gloom.
I dusted off my yoga mat when I got home. My dog nudged me out of a child's pose, tried to flip me out of a downward dog. In the thirties they waited in line for food, and here I am, mourning the loss of my gym time. My dog just doesn't like to see me turned upside down, and I get it. If he only knew that flipping me over didn't fix anything.
First world problems -- the coffee, the yoga, bare shelves at Whole Foods. One friend had to be out of town for her father's funeral, and nobody could come to the "shiva." A baby shower has been canceled, and an engagement party. A friend's surgery has been postponed. My 89 year old mother insists upon going about her business, and we scream at each other by text every morning. A friend reminded me I would be just as impossible as she is, at 89. My daughter reminded me that, at 60, I too am considered elderly. Turned upside down indeed.
It is St. Patrick's Day, but I don't yet see any green. Even the grass outside my window looks gray. It's day two of quasi-lockdown, and there appears to be no end in sight. I will grab some Purell, go vote, and come back home to hunker down. My wine rack is full, and I have not yet finished the tequila I brought home from Mexico. I'm one of the lucky ones.
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