We each respond differently to frightening and uncertain times. Some say that the media is exaggerating and insist that the situation is not nearly as dire as it is being portrayed. Others feel the need to purchase and hoard essentials without thought to those who may need immediate access to basic household items such as toilet paper and soap. Or maybe, instead of stockpiling supplies, you’re actually working your way through that stash of alcohol and ice cream that you’ve been saving for the perfect occasion. You know, like today.
I suspect that most, though, are doing their best to continue to meet the demands of family and work while remaining cognitive of the obvious shifting of importance of each of those aspects of life. There’s no two ways about it – this is a very scary time and there’s no telling when we will have our normal lives back again.
So, be kind to one another. Check in with your neighbors before heading to the store. This would be a great time to create a virtual neighborhood group on Facebook for communicating with people who live by you. Do some yard work. Clean out the basement. Take long walks. Look for and acknowledge signs of spring. It’s still coming.
The world feels absolutely crazy. While it may not actually be post apocalyptic, it’s as close as I’ve ever been to it and way worse than anything I’ve ever imagined.
My youngest child has asked me twice if I’ve ever experienced anything like this before. I think he repeated the question to give me a chance to respond differently having not liked my initial answer of “No, never.”
This situation we’re currently experiencing is new territory and I very much appreciate the decisions being made by some of our remarkable leaders. I would never want the responsibility that business owners and administrators and politicians have weighing on them these days.
I took my last yoga class today and it was really, really hard. The instructor is super delicate looking but actually is strong as f*ck. The core flow practice felt as if it would never end, like it would be dark outside when we finally finished. I expect to be sore tomorrow.
Speaking of sore, I ran for the first time today. It was slow and not particularly pretty, but I did it. The hills were a challenge to my knees, but I listened to my body and took it easy. I listened to a Waterboys playlist and it was the perfect soundtrack.
My hands feel incredibly dry. It must be related to the excessive amount of hand washing I’ve been doing, along with the odd pump of alcohol based antibacterial gel. I’m convinced the bee balm base of my hand moisturizing product creates a seal which is protecting me from catching a cold, or worse.
I feel like I’ve been eating really well. Cooking homemade meals with lots of vegetables from my Field Goods’ bag and a glass of wine on the side calms me. Especially with an early episode of Sex and the City as a chaser. Escapism isn’t so terrible when one does it with their eyes open.
These are, like I said before, absolutely weird and crazy times.
These are bonafide whacky times. This free fall of the once great America is beyond anything I could have ever imagined. I hear comparisons to the AIDS epidemic and the immediate post-9/11 days and understand and appreciate the obvious similarities. This, though? This is different.
There’s a children’s book that I despise, The Giving Tree. I’ve been thinking about it in recent weeks because I feel a common thread between Donald Trump’s followers and the tree which couldn’t say no. Trump’s believers have willingly placed themselves in the very same position as that tree, cutting off a limb with each previously unacceptable comment ignored (mocking a differently abled journalist, pussygrabber, Pocahontas, nasty) and every act of utter incompetence perpetrated (refusing WHO mask donation, keeping people on boats to continue to skew numbers, eliminating an entire federal medical department trained to anticipate and deal with pandemics.) by this president. I seriously don’t know how a single person would allow themselves to cut down to a stump by this fool, this jester, dressed like a king.
So, on a lighter note – What’s on your pandemic playlist?
R.E.M.’s It the End of the World as We Know It is the obvious song for me, but I’ve got some others in mind which also strike me as appropriate such as this…
I welcome your contributions for the ultimate zombie apocalypse playlist. Leave yours in a comment, please!
On a scale of 1-10 how would you rate your own compliance with recommendations for changing behaviors in light of the current Coronavirus outbreak? 1 being completely blasé and 10 abiding to suggestions like you’re a kid and Santa’s watching because it’s the week before Christmas.
I’m feeling proud and impressed by the real leaders who make decisions based upon what they believe is the best thing for the public at large, and not necessarily for themselves. Governor Cuomo and the superintendent of my district have both, with calm gravity, conveyed the important and necessary messages and are working hard to get the job done, whatever it may be. Bravo.
Shoutout to store clerks and customer service reps. All working their asses off.
Some questions to ponder:
What do you want to be doing when the world ends?
Are you really going to hate on yourself for gaining 10 lbs and not have that ice cream? With sprinkles?
What matters most?
Can you help someone else during this tumultuous and anxiety inducing time?
What will we learn about each other during, and after, this crisis?
I don’t know what to blame it on – the full moon, the clock change manipulation of time, politics, Coronavirus, upcoming travel plans, parenting angst, the uncertainty of the future, not being able to run…but getting quality sleep has become an issue for me and I’m not happy about it.
It isn’t as if I haven’t gone through spells like this before, but right now I’m really feeling distressed. After a long day of being bombarded by the idiocy of our President, the relentless media coverage of what may turn out to be a pandemic and my own internal struggle to remain in the moment without projection of any kind, all I want is six solid hours of shut eye. Is that too much to ask, universe?
Last night’s “rest” was exceptional, as in exceptionally bad. I thought I did everything right, an afternoon pedicure for relaxation, a light dinner followed by an evening walk with Jeter, and a hot (but, not too hot) bath before climbing into bed by 9:30. All systems go, right?
At 10:41, I woke up for the first time. I resisted unlocking my phone and instead started mentally packing for an upcoming trip, planning outfits and shoe selections. When that failed to lull me back to sleep, I started thinking instead about the weather here and what items I might want to order in my next Rent the Runway shipment. I dozed off.
I next awoke at about 1:30. This time, though, I was unsuccessful in coaxing myself back to sleep without reaching for my iPad and completing today’s NYT crossword puzzle. Seventeen short minutes later, my eyes were still wide open. I rolled over and grabbed one of Jeter’s paws to hold as a sort of adult stuffed animal comfort object. Yes, I really do that sometimes. My eyes shut and I returned to sleep for about 40 minutes.
At 3:02 my eyes sprang open again and I attempted to soothe myself with a yoga inspired alternate nostril breathing exercise. Unfortunately, there was no zen to be had. Instead, there was an odd and distant noise that prevented me from resuming sleep. I turned the light on and read my book for about 20 minutes, which is always a last resort for me.
This last time, I went down hard and the remaining hours prior to my alarm waking me up, were filled with crazy dreams. I don’t recall all the details, but I remember living somewhere new in an apartment that initially seemed very small. As the dream continued, the space revealed more rooms than I had initially seen. There were doorways which I walked through only to find additional bedrooms with beds larger than the one I had originally believed to be mine. The family who owned the property invited me to explore and make myself at home wherever I felt comfortable.
When the alarm woke me at 6:00, I was groggy and disoriented. I hit snooze and ended the Beatles’ wake up song, Good Day, Sunshine, I rely upon to start my day off right, closed my eyes and hoped the dream would restart.
From the minute we’re born, we seem to be placing ourselves in, and extracting and ourselves from, one mess after another. It just seems unavoidable. Despite best intentions to keep things tidy and unsullied, maintaining an existence which is uncomplicated and neat feels impossible. At least to me.
Sometimes, especially when my three sons were younger, the mess is a physical one. Toys strewn from room to room, crumbs and mysterious sticky remnants of unauthorized bedroom snack consumption, and Lego blocks turning up unexpectedly underfoot like Christmas pine tree needles in July. Those days have mostly passed for me. My home is definitely neater, aside from multiple pairs of sneakers in alarmingly large sizes randomly abandoned in the precise spot where they were casually kicked off.
Literal messes happen to all of us – that box of blueberries that popped open and released uncountable orbs of blue all over the kitchen floor, tumbleweeds of dog hair, the leaky trash bag drizzling garbage juice all the way down the stairs as a final gross goodbye. For these situations we arm ourselves with sponges and brooms and cleaners. Getting things back in order is a chore to be managed, an accomplishment to forget about once it’s completed. No big deal.
Returning a physical mess to its previous state (or even one that’s improved) can be annoying, but generally it’s pretty easy. You wipe, sweep, mop and you’re done.
Life’s less tangible messes are a whole different story, though. Relationships and emotions are not nearly as easy to manage and they’re nowhere as simple to contain as even the most rogue of escaped blueberries. There’s nothing neat or tidy about our feelings and, since typically our emotional state is not independent of those we care about, limiting their impact on others is a much more difficult task.
Working through an emotional mess is a challenge, even if we attempt to deal with it in the same direct and efficient manner we use to address a spill. Unfortunately, there’s no product available to scrub our hearts or heads clean, no Shamwow to absorb all the emotions and thoughts swirling inside ourselves. Like the days of small boys behaving like mini cyclones in my previously neat home, it will pass. Until then, all one can do is their best to avoid stepping on anything that hurts.
Binge watch television programs. I demolished Sex Education and am aggressively working me way through Schitt’s Creek. The later is growing on me with each episode, while the former grabbed me immediately and remains in my thoughts. Of course, I relate to Maeve more than any of the other characters, but, damn, Gillian Anderson’s performance in this series is remarkable. Wow. This quote keeps echoing in my hear and my heart:
“Try to stay honest because once you start lying it’s hard to stop.”
Amen.
I was thinking that ma’am just doesn’t agree with me. I’m not attempting to claim the title “Miss” but I’d much prefer “Milady.” It’s dignified, but still fun. I’m just not ready for ma’am.
I’m surprised that my knee doesn’t hurt me more. It’s feeling a little tight, but I imagine that to be some moderate swelling because you know I hate the ice when I’m injured. It’s very difficult to stay still when there isn’t pain.
Relationships being the exception to that rule.
Speaking of pain and relationships, Jeter has been amazingly calm since I came home from my surgery. He’s been on the couch right next to me consistently. I walked him this morning and he was sensitive to my hobble, even when that squirrel practically danced in front of Jeter as I fastened his harness.
On Monday, I did a flurry of cooking, roasting broccoli, pickling red cabbage from my Field Goods bag and making #thestew from the NYT with the addition of cubed tofu. I love having prepared food in my fridge.
A unexpected side benefit from all the cooking was a couple of cups of gorgeous purple liquid that I couldn’t resist pouring over my hair. I mean vinegar adds shine and who knows? Maybe my ends will absorb some of the color. I’ve been toying with adding a little color to my tips and this just might add a little tinge of purple.
Tuesday morning at an ungodly hour, I have an appointment in Clifton Park to have my meniscus trimmed and basically tidied up. Or in. Whatever. It’s going to be a little worse for a short time, but then it should get better.
I’ll be able to strengthen my body symmetrically instead of out of whack, as I innately protect my left side from further damage during yoga class. Both butt cheeks should hit the ground together in child’s pose and the bottom of my left foot will once again find the inside of my right thigh. Even more will be right in my world than it is today and that’s saying a lot.
Spending this winter break from school at home having, and recuperating from, knee surgery may not sound like an ideal vacation, but I’m psyched about it. Unless something goes terribly wrong, my discomfort is going to be abated and my flexibility will improve. And I’ll be able to run again.
It’s ok to be home recuperating in February when I’ve got 4 weeks of travel later this year to which I’m looking forward. Unlike my hobble when I initially landed in Athens last summer, I should be feeling stronger and more able to walk without pain or a limp during those upcoming weeks of foreign adventure. I’ll be better – physically and mentally. It’ll be great.
Today was my last walk around Muni pre-surgery and it was spectacular. There was no wind and the sun was bright and strong. Jeter was well behaved and placed his poops really well, near trash cans oddly marked “Inedible.” We walked the front 9, counterclockwise, adding a short loop by the clubhouse.
At one point we overtook a group of three humans and a couple of dogs and, as we passed them, I overheard one of the women talking about running. Judging from her attire of leggings and windbreaker, I concluded she had originally planned to run the course but, when she encountered her friends, changed her mind and decided to walk instead.
Hearing the word “run,” honestly, triggered me. Coincidentally, I was wearing my running shoes for the first time in months on the relatively clear paved path. I couldn’t not run.
Last uncut knee pic! Scars show life lived.
I ran slowly, reveling in how my body felt unleashed. My feet didn’t hurt and my hips felt loose. The sun was on my face as I smiled. I was so damn happy. I imagined being able to run again, without the tenderness I was currently experiencing on the inside of my left knee. That morning date with the orthopedic surgeon couldn’t come soon enough.
Tuesday morning at an ungodly hour, I have an appointment in Clifton Park to have my meniscus trimmed and basically tidied up. Or in. Whatever. It’s going to be a little worse for a short time, but then it should get better.
