Sunday, June 28, 2020

A FAREWELL TO QUARANTINE

I knew it was too good to last.

 

Governor Pritzker, my hero, made me a happy woman a few months ago by forcing me to stay home and watch Netflix. Yes, I know I recently wrote about my quarantine failures, but on the whole I was quite content. Sadly, he who giveth (gaveth?) also taketh away. Illinois is loosening restrictions, and I am being forced to confront some unsettling realities.

  • The gyms are opening, so I will no longer have an excuse not to exercise.
  • Beaches are accessible, so I may feel obligated to squeeze into a swimsuit. If I do, please avert your eyes. For your own sake. 
  • More and more restaurants will have inside as well as outside dining, which means I will no longer be able to use my newly acquired culinary talent--knowing all the delivery people by name. It also means I will still be gaining weight, but I will be spending significantly more money to do so.
  • My husband's weekly card games will soon return, and I may therefore never see him again. 
  • I will never find out what happens on Ozark.
  • Small gatherings are now allowed, which means I will no longer be able to easily avoid some people that I really, really liked being able to easily avoid.
  • When we meet in the aforementioned small groups, it will require that I put on clothes and drive somewhere. And unfortunately, I have lost the inclination to do either.

It's really quite depressing. After all, I'm the kind of person who looks forward to winter because I can get into my pajamas at 4:30 and begin watching TV. On the other hand, I suppose there are silver linings. Like, oh, shopping for clothes again.

 

Too bad I hate shopping.

 

 


BREAKING UP IS HARD TO ZOOM

I have been dumped.

 

I thought I was long past the time in my life when I needed to fear a broken heart. When I had to wonder whether I was worthy of affection. But age, apparently, does not protect us from sorrow.

 

Which my husband and I found out last weekend when our Zoom partners broke up with us.

 

We should have known from the beginning that the relationship was not going to last. We were all sheltering in place. We were bored.  We were desperate for companionship. So I reached out, tentatively, to another couple.

 

"Hey, so, do you want to Zoom this Saturday night with Jeff and me?"

 

"Ohmigod, yes!" they said. Followed by, "What is a Zoom?"

 

But they were eager and willing to experiment, and they learned quickly. And at first, as with most relationships, it was good. It was very good. We chatted. We drank wine. We played endless rounds of Code Names and Heads Up. Yes, we were a virtual, G-rated version of that old movie, Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice. 



 

We stayed online for hours. But then the quarantine continued. Weeks became months. Code Names lost its allure. There was nothing more to talk about, and not enough wine to mask the boredom. Worse, we could see the telltale flicker of the television on our friends' slightly averted faces. And then came that terrible Friday. It began when I sent my usual text.

 

"We on for tomorrow night?"

 

No reply. I tried again.

 

"Did you get my first text? Are we on for tomorrow night?"

 

Again, nothing.

 

I became nervous. I had heard about ghosting, but never thought I'd experience it. Finally, I got desperate enough to make an actual phone call.

 

"Hey, it's me."

 

"Oh. Hi."

 

"Haven't heard from you. Are we Zooming tomorrow night?"

 

"Um. I don't think so."

 

"What? Why?"

 

"Well… We kind of made other plans."

 

"What do you mean, other plans?" 


And suddenly, I knew.

 

"Wait. You're CHEATING on us?? What did we do?"

 

"It's not you. It's us. We…we just need to Zoom other people."

 

"Why? I mean, if you need a change, we can change. I can find a new game! We can limit the amount of time we spend together! We won't bore you with pictures of the grandkids anymore!"

 

"It's not that…"

 

I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. "No, I mean it! In fact, we'd be okay if you wanted to Zoom someone else on the side. Please, don't do this!"

 

"I'm sorry. We just need a little break."

 

I felt bitterness put down roots within  me. "And when did you plan to tell us?"

 

"I guess I just did."

 

So, here we are. Abandoned. Discarded. Left to pick up the shattered pieces of our self-worth. My husband and I have been trying to process this all week, and hopefully we'll be able to move on. But it may be a while before we can Zoom again.

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, June 27, 2020

WHAT, ME WORRY?

First of all, thanks to all of you who responded so positively to my first post! And to the ones who expressed some concern, thank you, but I am not in need of a Licensed Mental Health Professional. Not right now, anyhow. Well, at least, not as frequently.

 

In fact, as the comments continued to come in, I said to myself, Hey, Self! Maybe this is the new "thing" you've been looking for since you retired! Maybe you could be the next Erma Bombeck! Maybe you could end up syndicated in the country's five remaining newspapers, or, better yet, become a regular blogger. Heck, you might even start getting advertisers (probably for walk-in showers and retirement villages) and become rich! Maybe this is finally the beginning of freakin' Bonnie 2.0!

 

And then…my brain began attacking me. It said things like, "Oh, you poor deluded thing. First of all, your friends were probably just being nice. What if the next time you post they say, 'Ohmigod, did she think we were serious?'" Or what if I'm seen as one of those too-frequent posters about whom people say, "Doesn't she have anything better to do with her time? (The answer is no.) What if readers mutter, "Why is she writing about all this trivial stuff when, after all, there are Covid spikes and protests in the streets and, well, Trump?"

 

At that point, I almost turned off the computer. Because, like many women, I am a worrier. But I am a championship, award-winning worrier. I am also the Duchess of Doubt, and the Supreme Sovereign of Second-Guessing. Now, some of my worries are relatively normal:

 

  • Will I ever lose that last 10 pounds? All right, that last 20 pounds? Okay, fine, that first twenty pounds?
  • Along those lines, will Weight Watchers change its program again, and if so, will bananas no longer be zero points?
  • When I didn't turn my phone off on the plane, was I actually risking the lives of my fellow passengers?
  • Will the dining room set I want to buy be universally admired by all my friends and relatives? If not, can I return it?
  • Is David G, the nice guy I was once kind of mean to senior year in college, still upset with me?
  • Do people think less of me because I only ever order chocolate ice cream at Baskin-Robbins?
  • When I once microwaved my grandson's milk bottle instead of putting it in the warmer, did the microwaves stunt his future intellectual growth?
  • After reading that last item, will my son and daughter-in-law ever let me see their child again?

As I said, I realize that most of the preceding items are nothing particularly unusual. But the following worries have also been known to roost in my head:

  • If we give away our old couch, will it miss us?
  • If I store some old stuffed animals and dolls in plastic bins, will they be able to breathe? (Yes, the bins now have air holes.)
  • When, on the advice of a friend, I buried St. Joseph upside-down in my yard in order to sell my house, was he terribly uncomfortable? And is he  annoyed that I never dug him up again?
  • What if those happy little M&M characters don't realize that they were put on earth for the sole purpose of being eaten? Shouldn't someone tell them?
  • What if my dog sees me without any clothes on and thinks that I've been skinned alive?
  • What if my dog sees me without any clothes on and is just disgusted?

Okay. I see it now. The mental health professional may be warranted. Or maybe I should just keep writing, since that's cheaper than therapy. Of course, then I'll have to worry that my therapist will think I don't like her anymore.

FAILING QUARANTINE

Okay, so now that stay-at-home is winding down, and the streets are busy again, and stores have a constant stream of customers, there is something I feel compelled to admit.

 

I failed quarantine.

 

Oh, sure, I started out okay. During the first weeks, I cleaned closets, discovered Broadway HD, Zoomed with friends and relatives I hadn't talked to in years, and completed a really complex jigsaw puzzle with my husband while listening to Rewatchable podcasts. I was content.

 

I also relished the feeling that stay-at-home was the great equalizer. NO ONE could go out and achieve great things. EVERYONE was binging Netflix and watching Tiger King. There were NO pictures on Instagram or Facebook inciting jealousy or making me feel talentless or boring. Even the women on The View were looking a little frayed around the edges, and Whoopi was wearing the same shirt every day. I was now more than content. I was happy.

 

But then it started. Clever Instagrams. Creative YouTube videos. Virtual concerts. Someone recreating the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks.  A talking dog named Pluto whose "mom," as I understand it, is now making a butt-load of money off him.  Worst of all, a relative showing off her daily projects, which included painting a washtub yellow, retiling her floor, and building a fountain, all the while narrating her accomplishments with an adorable squeaky Disney voice and a goofy little smile that just reminds me how cute I am not.  

 

So I made plans. I was going to practice guitar every day, learn to do complex fingerpicking patterns, master the intro to "Stairway to Heaven," and impress my friends. I was going to become fluent in sign language because I've always wanted to learn it and because those people doing the daily Covid briefings look so cool. I was going to finally learn to cook like a grown-up and surprise my kids, who grew up eating only those meals that could be created using noodles and Campbell's soup. (I was also going to get me some of that sourdough starter, but I realized that after I fed it and watched it grow, I would probably name it Blobby and become too attached to it to ever make it into bread.) 


Most importantly, I was going to pull out all of my barely-started novels, pick one, complete it in a month, get published again, have the book made into a TV show or movie, become very famous, and watch Universal or Disney battle over who would base its next theme park on it. Yes, I was going to achieve my Life's Dream.

 

Well, people, I didn't even finish watching Tiger King. I also have barely glanced at my guitar, and I definitely have not become a consummate chef, although I have indeed eliminated the Campbell's soup. On the plus side, I found a site that taught sign language, and I can now confidently make the signs for on, off, and dog, which will enable me to effectively communicate with my 18-month-old grandson should he ever take up signing and want to tell me that our dog can get on and off the table, even though she can't, and even though I still have to learn the sign for table.

 

And as for writing my next novel, I didn't do that either. Then someone suggested I not stress myself out and just write something for a few minutes a day, to get the juices going, so to speak. So I started today. And this is it.