Life Without Hugs

A friend had a birthday, so we gathered, Covid style. In her driveway, each of us six feet away from the nearest other, each of us holding our own miniature Prosecco. We even left extra space between our cars as we parked. 

I haven't seen my friends in what seems like ages. Weeks, probably, but the isolation has made the days run together, periods of gray punctuated by stretches of darkness, with an occasional glimpse of sunlight to remind us of what used to be. A sliver of false optimism, as we wonder when it will matter again whether it is Saturday or Monday. 

It was good to see my friends again, even though we couldn't hug. Still better than the group texts that ping in the distant perimeter of my solitude while I try to work. Work alone, at home, as I often do, but it feels so different now. 

Mind you, it's not all bad. I am trying my hand at cooking and baking. I apologized to my son yesterday, for not trying all that sooner, like, say, when he and his siblings might have enjoyed coming home to a house that smelled like cookies just out of the oven. I've been concocting Bloody Mary's, convincing myself it's just a salad in a glass. I have found a reason for celery; I have binged on pickled asparagus. 

I crave my mother's wisdom. Not the thinness wisdom (the best exercise is pushing yourself away from the table) that has always amused my friends, but the trite wisdom that I have always waved away, as my children do when I tell them everything will work out. This too shall pass, she has always told me. I believe it when she says it, though I still hold my breath every morning until I know she is all right. 

We have relied for so long now upon virtual connection; now, it is all we have. It's something, more than something. We check on our friends and our family, certainly more than we used to. But no hugging. That's a tough one for me. 

Until the curve flattens, virtual will have to do. Virtual exercise classes with my daughters while we amuse ourselves on FaceTime with our genetic lack of coordination; virtual cocktail hours with my girlfriends, without clinking; daily family wellness checks; an uncanny urge to tell all the people in my life to stay safe, having had a taste of what life might be without them. 

This too shall pass, and, I expect, not without some valuable lessons for all of us. 

Lock Him Down!

Does anybody remember the helicopter pressers? So obviously ridiculous, an old lunatic screaming at a gaggle of invisible and inaudible reporters over the roar of propellers? They seem so quaint and harmless now, those sham news conferences, those facsimiles of transparency. 

As he did from the moment he staged the escalator ride that ushered in our descent into hell, he has availed himself of the media to spew whatever it is he spews, and the media has obliged. It's been infuriating, sometimes even hilarious, and, yes, dangerous. Now, it is lethal. 

With the imprimatur of American flags and medical experts and government officials standing mute behind him, he lies. About what has befallen us, about what might befall us, about all he has done and will do to save us. He responds to questions asked of others, and allows them to speak only if they kiss the ring, pay homage. With a straight face and a telltale sniff, he denies what he has said before, even though it has all been preserved. For anyone naive enough to still buy into it, caveat emptor. Most of us know better. 

But here's the thing. He attacks the press, he attacks free speech, and he shouts down any question bearing a hint of challenge. And the press continues to show up, continues to give voice to his lies, and continues to allow him to attack democracy while he misappropriates legitimacy from the flags behind him. He desecrates those flags, and he desecrates all of us. And now, people are dying. 

As I walked my dog yesterday, we ran into some old friends, a woman and her dog whom we had met at a neighborhood dog park last summer. The woman told me nothing much has changed for her, because she is retired, and she is home a lot anyway. Not much, except she had trouble finding things on the grocery shelves. I nodded. I had to go to three stores the other day to find an onion.

Not much has changed for me and Eli either, I suppose. I still work from home. He still does his business outside. I wash my hands more, but his hygiene remains the same, such as it is. Yet, as a mother, and a daughter, and a sister, and a friend, I worry more. One daughter is in lock down not far away in Chicago; my other daughter is in New York, ground zero; my son is in Japan. My mother lives alone in Brooklyn, and she is elderly. My brother is a doctor in a busy New York hospital. I have no control over their welfare, not that I ever did. But these days, it weighs heavily. 

The president's behavior weighs more heavily too, though I hadn't thought that possible. I still wonder why -- though a bit more desperately -- in a democracy, we have relinquished our control, our voice. He will do what he wants, and say what he wants, but should it be aired as news? With the trappings of truth standing at attention behind him? I think not. 

St. Pat's in Black and White

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.