I’m guessing my rabbi and dentist mean to be reassuring when they send emails reading, “We see you during this challenging time.”
You can see me?! Great. I’ve been wearing the same pj’s for so long, they’re about to get up and walk to West Virginia, one of the few states the coronavirus has yet to truly tour.
So many New Yorkers seem to be using lockdown to pursue a new hobby, or as a chance for self-improvement. My Facebook’s blowing up with friends learning new languages, tackling Michelin-level recipes and getting in fighting shape for this pseudo-zombie apocalypse we’re going through. Good for them.
Me? I’m too busy freaking out and fixating on where I can lock down a half-year’s supply of hand sanitizer. (Got any leads? Email me!)
I see the appeal of Rosetta Stone and Duolingo. I was going to work on my buon giornos for that trip I’d planned to Italy, along with shopping a few cute looks. But my desire to bone up on Italian is gone, along with my need for new outfits to wear al fresco. I’m now in the market for a “reusable protection bucket hat” that complements my bone structure, and bookmarking mask sites to see when stock is replenished.
Cooking’s hard with my busy new evening routine. After a dinner punctuated with frantic hand-washing (my veins have never looked so shiny blue!), it’s lights off by 11 p.m., nightmares about the end of days around 2 a.m. and intermittent screaming until 8 a.m., when I finally give up and get out of bed.
I’ve heard that some people are doing brunches and movie nights over Zoom and FaceTime to stay connected to friends in isolation. One upside for me is that my whole family is together now! And also that gun shops have been deemed nonessential. I don’t trust myself with a Glock with this much 24/7 family time.
Exercise, I’m doing OK on. I’ve been practicing my elbow-bumping so much, my biceps have never looked better! I’ve considered mimicking my gym routine with at-home workouts. I hear Peloton is offering a free 90-day trial, and that there’s a pushup challenge that’s making the rounds online. Unfortunately, those would require me to put on shoes.
Besides, doesn’t a trip to Trader Joe’s qualify as exercise? I dart through the market like an Olympian sprinter, screaming, “Where are the organic lemons? Did they move the organic lemons?” in a questionably legit two-year-old N99 mask, gloved and hooded. (What does a girl have to do around here to get some attention?)
The lemons were AWOL and the store was out of my favorite milk, but at least there was cookie dough. I’m proud to report that I’m doing my part by socially distancing the blobs of dough on my baking sheets.
But while my cookies might be law-abiding, my waistline is in the crosshairs of the fat police. Hello, “Quarantine 15!”
For all fellow New Yorkers using lockdown to shape up, grow and evolve, you’re on my mind as I turn death scenarios over in my head, watch Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s “direside” chats and dig into my stash of peanut butter cups, which seem to be self-soothing.
As the new saying goes, it’s 1 o’clock somewhere.
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