Quarantine Diary Day 197: Allergic to Reality

The only reason I don’t have tattoos is because I’m too much of a wuss to get them. I don’t care about the pain; I’m afraid of an untreatable allergic reaction. I’m afraid my skin will reject the ink. True allergic reactions to colors other than red are fairly uncommon, I realize, but I also realize by now that I’m one of those annoying highly sensitive persons who can’t just do things that other people do without thinking. I knew I was allergic to nickel when I went to the tattoo shop with a group of kids from my dorm at eighteen, knew it bodily from six years of battling itchy, inflamed earlobes and an itchy stomach, too, when I wore a belt too tight and the buckle rubbed against my skin, but I went ahead and pierced my belly button anyway and hoped for the best. I suffered, of course. I treated the fresh piercing according to the shop’s instructions and hoped the hot, crusty holes above my navel would heal into something cute, but when my I saw my friend had a glittering playboy bunny peeking out under her babydoll t-shirt and no signs of infection whatsoever, I had to admit that mine didn’t look anything like hers and, also, I was miserable. There is no relief like pulling a surgical steel barbell topped on either end with fake rubies out of a wound of your own making. There is no relief like giving up on something your body is rejecting. 

Heavy metals aren’t the only substances that make my body go haywire. Pet a cat or walk into a room with a guinea pig and my eyes will itch for hours. Inhale deeply in the fall and spring and I’ll cough like I’ve got COVID. Drink caffeine after three p.m. and I’m not just sleepless, I’m shaking and scared. Swallow ten mg hydrocodone and I start thinking like a junkie. More to the point of this post, I also have atopic dermatitis and keratosis pilaris and cystic acne and probably three or four other conditions that could be lumped under the rubric of “bad skin.” 

I’ve done a fair amount of research. I’ve contacted artists and shops, analyzed ingredient lists, looked into vegan and organic inks, and read scientific abstracts and posts going back over a decade on tattoo message boards. I’ve tried to come at the decision from every angle and even gone as far as scheduling appointments and putting down deposits, but I always end up in the same spot. Given the circumstances of my body, injecting ink into my skin with a metal needle seems, at best, like a foolish thing to do.

You’d think, with this self-knowledge, I’d stop revisiting the question of whether or not to get a tattoo, stop following artists on Instagram, stop looking at my own body as a canvas. The problem is, I so enjoy the inhabiting the archetype of the fool. The fool, with her bindle and her little white dog and the sun shining bright as she moves to step off the cliff of everything she knows into the wild unknown, is always on the cusp of a new adventure. The fool is someone I so rarely get to be in my professional life or as the parent of a young child (though perhaps I am foolish in both arenas more often than I care to admit). The fool is someone none of us get to be in this political moment, as we are being duped by trickster magicians and ruled by emperors with all the power and no clothes and devils with their chains that shine so pretty until you realize they’ve got you around the neck.  

I want tattoos, though. I want a short phrase from the Book of Mormon on my left forearm, a beehive on my right shoulder blade, a seagull on my right tricep, an illustration of Frog from Arnold Lobel’s beloved Frog and Toad on my left quad, a saguaro cactus on my left inner bicep and an anchor on the right, and I want whatever strikes my fancy after that. 

I want tattoos like I want to go on vacation and play board games with friends and go to a bar and get real close to someone without a mask. Of course I’m not going to do any of those things until the science says I can. I want to be the fool but only with the promise of no more lessons to learn.   

Quarantine Diary Day 129: Fuck Politeness

I’m listening to the audio version of Stay Sexy & Don’t Get Murdered, the memoir/advice book by Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgariff, the hosts of the true crime podcast, My Favorite Murder. I don’t actually listen to this podcast and I only started the book because it had a catchy (to say the least!) title and was immediately available on my library e-reader app and I hesitated before checking it out. I listen to a lot of podcasts and I definitely do dabble in true crime in several of the formats via which the culture/my husband has sought to force it down our collective/my own throat–see: Serial Season 1 (murder), Accused (murder), Bear Brook (murder), Last Seen (art heist!), The Staircase (murder?), The Jinx (murder), The People vs. O.J. Simpson (this one was not that good, right?) and probably so many more I don’t even remember–but I don’t consider myself a fan of the genre. I’m sort of squeamish and I’m sensitive to how people, especially men, sometimes talk about violence in a way that seems like they glorify or get off on or are just totally unmoved by it. I can also have a short attention span so if the storyline of the murder and/or investigation is not immediately gripping, you will lose me in the procedure and backstory and tangents that go nowhere. Also, I once read this post from Ask A Manager about an employee who was sickened by how often and gleefully her coworkers talked about violent crime and, honestly, I related to the prudish letter writer!

Nevertheless, I am listening to Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered, and I’m loving it because the authors are relatable weirdos, compelling storytellers, moving writers, and funny. They are also unabashed feminists, which, really, I think should be a prerequisite for any job that involves investigating/discussing/dissecting/preventing grisly crimes against women. The chapters in the book seem to be based on various catchphrases and credos from the show, one of which is “fuck politeness.” Fuck politeness because politeness will keep you stuck in dangerous situations when you are afraid of overreacting or being rude or hurting someone’s feelings. Fuck politeness because politeness will let you override your instincts, the alarm bells going off in your head, the red flags flapping your face. Please note: politeness is not the same as kindness. Do not fuck kindness. Never fuck kindness. Fuck politeness because politeness can get you killed.

As soon as I heard the Murderinos’ theory of why fucking politeness is a life-saving imperative, I knew it was true. Looking back over my own blessedly abbreviated history of finding my way into and out of all manner of nettlesome, nasty, and noxious scrapes, I see that the pattern was always the same: 1) I followed my own underdeveloped sense of self-esteem onto the outskirts of a shady situation; 2) social grooming to be polite and pleasant muted me as I followed someone else smack into the middle of the danger zone; and, eventually, 3) my survival instinct screamed at me to fuck politeness and get the fuck out.

I’m thinking of the time I let a fully-grown weather-beaten fifty-something man I met buying cigarettes at the 7-Eleven into the car with me and my nineteen-year-old girlfriends, let him tag along with for hours going to various parties, brought him into our house at the end of the night, nervously waved off my roommates as they disappeared into their bedrooms with their boyfriends, and then resigned myself to hanging out with this guy for however long he stayed at my house. I desperately wanted to sleep, too, and I was terrified that this man thought he was on his way to my room, but I was afraid to ask him to leave after spending the whole evening with him. I was convinced I owed him my company for as long as he wanted it. If my anxiety was through the roof even before we got high, it went stratospheric after. Somehow, my altered state made it clear: this guy needed to go. My mouth was moving a mile a minute but not saying any of the things it needed to say. I knew it was unforgivable to kick him out after taking his drugs and if I wasn’t going to have sex with him the least I could do was be entertaining. It wasn’t until he leaned over me that I figured out how to fuck politeness. I jumped off the couch, sprinted to the back of the house, and started pounding on my roommate’s door and screaming for her and her boyfriend to make him leave. They did. I woke up the next morning with huge bruises on my legs and no idea where they came from.

My conditioning for is so strong that when the man came back the next day I refused to see him but told my roommates to tell him I was sorry. My politeness drive is so strong that I put this man on a list of “people I have harmed” when I worked the eighth step years later. It really was shitty to smoke his shit and run. I’ve forgiven myself for the dumb choices that put me in that situation. It’s harder to forgive myself for not knowing a way to get out of it without acting like a bitch, a trainwreck, a hot scary mess, even though I knew in the moment that hopping that train was what it would take to save my life.

I’m writing this vulgar overshare of post for COVID-related reasons.

When the pandemic hit, I rarely wore a mask. I never went anywhere except for walks around the neighborhood and it was frigid for weeks, so I scarcely saw anyone. Even when the weather warmed up, it was so rare that anyone came anywhere near six feet and it was so easy to just cross the street if I saw someone coming my way. Around Memorial Day more neighbors started spending time outside. At first I tried to keep my distance and when their kids ran up to me I would panic and tug the bandana tied around my neck up over my nose. When the data started to come out about the relatively low risk of transmission outside compared to indoors, I started to relax. When experts started to suggest expanding shelter-in-place bubbles to include one or two other families as a means of preserving mental health and making this thing sustainable, I started to relax. When Illinois started to flatten the curve and move into new phases of reopening, I started to relax. I got comfortable talking to my neighbors outside without a mask. I got comfortable taking my daughter to the playground without a mask. I got comfortable leaving the house without even grabbing a mask just in case.

That’s changing, though. The summer–hell, the year–is halfway over and the pandemic is still going strong but people are pouring out of their houses onto the sidewalks, into the parks, onto the beaches and trails and streets. More people I know are getting sick. The potential long-term complications of the virus are starting to look scarier. Now, when I see people outside, I recoil like I did back in March. I reach for my mask. It feels awkward to don a mask outside when I’ve been walking around without one for so long. It feels rude to pull it up when I pass people who aren’t wearing theirs. It feels rude to wear it when I’m with people I’ve been hanging out with outside since May. Obviously, I know it’s not objectively rude to wear a mask, but it feels that way sometimes. Social conditioning is fucked like that. Even worse than feeling rude, it feels like an admission of fault for not wearing one in the first place. Luckily, I know how to override my stupid social anxieties to save a life:

Fuck politeness. Fuck what other people think.

It doesn’t matter if you think or know you should have done a thing a long time ago or if you’re embarrassed or afraid to just be doing it. It doesn’t matter how hard you committed to your earlier course of action or how far it took you off course. It’s never too late to course correct and do the right thing.

Quarantine Diary Day 103: Peaches in the Summertime

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From the looks of it, things are getting better in Illinois. Testing for coronavirus is up. Case counts are dropping. The entire state is on track to move into phase four of the plan to restore Illinois, which is the final phase until we have a vaccine. We are cautiously optimistic. We are running errands but wearing masks, we are going to restaurants but sitting on the patio at tables six feet apart, we are letting the kids play but only outside. We are resigned to a summer without festivals, concerts, or sports. God willing, my daughter will go to day camp next month. I don’t want to overstate the positive. We have lost almost 7,000 people, and people are still dying every day. But the deaths are slowing and it feels like we’re turning a corner.

I’m not resting easy, though. With the recent surge in the southwest, I feel like the virus is getting closer to hitting where it hurts. I came to the midwest by way of the desert and the desert is where most of my family still lives. Most saliently, it’s where all of my older relatives live, including and especially the ones who will not appreciate being called “older relatives.” My grandma and my great uncle live in Phoenix. My parents live in Mesa. My in-laws live in Houston. They are all high risk.

My worry for my family isn’t unusual or new. We’re all worried about our older relatives. Since March, I’ve been troubled that state and local leaders in less densely packed states were apparently unwilling to make the same politically unpopular decisions that ours have in Illinois. Since March, I’ve been handling my daughter’s recurring nightmares about death by lying to her, reassuring her that her grandparents aren’t leaving the house unless they have to, aren’t seeing people outside their immediate families, and are religious about wearing masks, even though I have no basis for thinking that they are taking the same precautions on an individual level that we are taking in Illinois.

The rise in cases out west isn’t all that surprising. From my admittedly distant perspective, Arizona has basically been wide open since memorial day. From my admittedly biased perspective, it’s incredibly frustrating to hear about folks going to restaurants and churches and showers and parties and parties and bars. Make no mistake: I’m not frustrated because I want to do these things and can’t. I’m frustrated because other people don’t seem to get that they don’t have to do these things. There is a third way, a path between total lockdown and business as usual and we’re doing it in Illinois, which is what makes it hard to watch folks in other states throw up their hands and say, “Well, we tried!” As one science reporter put it: “There are ways to be responsible and socialize, but people don’t seem to be able to draw the line between what’s OK and what is not. For too many people, it seems to be binary — they are either on lockdown or taking no precautions.”

And look, I get it. As an ex-binge drinker, believe me, I get it. Moderation is a mindfuck. When I enjoyed my drinking I couldn’t control it and when I controlled my drinking I couldn’t enjoy it. What even is the point of two drinks? The aphorism isn’t limited to alcohol, either. I’m like this with everything! Food, shopping, television, the internet, cigarettes, sex, drugs, art, religion, other people. If it’s possible to derive pleasure from a thing, I want as much of it as I can get away with taking. This is how a 5k becomes a marathon, how a twenty-minute TV show becomes a Netflix binge, how a new acquaintance becomes an internet obsession, how a new single becomes a band’s entire back catalogue, how two squares of dark chocolate become a bag of Haribo and ice cream, how one Instagram post becomes three hours of scrolling. And you know changing the way I engage with the world feels impossible. It’s easier to just swear things off.

Peaches in the summertime, apples in the fall; if I can’t have you all the time, I don’t want none at all.

Here’s the thing, though. I can’t whittle my life down to one thin, virtuous core. Nobody can. It’s unsustainable. I had to cut my losses with the things that were killing me quickest in the order that I realized they were doing me in (drugs, cigarettes, booze) and figure out how to take a balanced, reasoned approach to the rest. It’s still a work in progress! But also–and this is key–completely doable. I can change the way I live. Life doesn’t have to be a series of wild swings between ego and id. I can suspend my personal desires, whatever they are–to eat at a restaurant, go to a friend’s house, hang around in a crowd of people sharing air without a mask on–to listen to somebody who might know more than me to help somebody who might need it more than me.

If a want monster (HT to my sister for that turn of phrase) can do these things, then you can too. You too can stay home for 103 days and not drink/eat/TV yourself to death. You can mask up at the grocery store. You can see your friends and your kids’ friends outside. You can do it even if your government isn’t forcing you to and when you see the death toll exploding you too can numb your despair with the smug satisfaction that comes with knowing at least you gave a damn.

Quarantine Diary Day 81: Fulcrum

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Lately all my long runs have been up and down Chicago’s north shore. I start in Evanston and wind my way up through Wilmette, Kenilworth, Winnetka, and Glencoe and back down again. This isn’t my usual route. I vastly prefer to run south from Evanston down through Rogers Park, Edgewater, Uptown, Lakeview, Lincoln Park and back up again. The northern route is all mansions and empty streets and private beaches. The southern route is all high rises and crowded sidewalks and public beaches. The northern route is all kayaks and sailboats. The southern route is all kites and bikes. The northern route is all cobblestone and the southern route is all cracked pavement. The northern route is edenic gardens and manicured lawns and the southern route is fairy houses and public art. The northern art is wrought iron gates around the best beaches and the southern route is police cruising the beach for no goddamn good reason on a Saturday afternoon.

The first time I ran north, my eyes popped out of my head every mile as the houses doubled then tripled in size and the yards sprouted statuary that was truly bizarre. The last time I ran south I had to turn back when I hit the police barricade and realized Mayor Lightfoot was serious about closing the lakefront in Chicago. Damn. Since then, like I said, all my runs go north, which means all my runs are an exercise in coping with my class-based anxieties.

The first weekend in May I ran north and my mind was blown not by the wealth on display but by the flagrant disregard for social distancing. It was an unseasonably warm day and the beaches and parks and parking lots were swarming. Outdoorsy types on a stroll. Group yoga classes. Barbeques. Men in tight bike clothes just hanging out shooting the shit. College kids, limbs dangling all over each each other, spilling into the intersections. I wasn’t upset, really, just confused. Evanston was still locked down and this was before the data about the reduced risk of infection outside was being widely reported. Every week, sometimes every day, living on the north shore offers tests my commitment to living according to my values. The point of differentiation might be houses or cars or jobs or schools or summer camps or vacations or politics or religion or it might be the public health risks associated with the coronavirus: the outcome is the same. My family and I will be doing something different.

Still, the neighborhood seeps in. I have house envy and, these days especially, yard envy. I worry my kid isn’t in enough activities, even if they are all Zoom-based now. And when I saw all those families tumbling into each other on the sidewalk on a warm day in early May, something in me shifted, ever so slightly. It was my commitment. I knew that next time the neighbor kids ran up to us on the front porch, I wouldn’t go inside or steer my daughter away. This is how it changes. A person. A family. A city. A world. I hope this isn’t how it falls apart.

Edited to add: White privilege is being able to write a post like this without thinking of Chicago’s long and living history of racial segregation and redlining (refusing to grant mortgages and insurance to Black people, effectively shutting them out of the American dream of homeownership). White silence is the fact that I did think of those things and wrote the post without acknowledging them anyway. White silence is a manifestation of white supremacy. I thought I didn’t know enough to write about housing discrimination but the truth is I know plenty, just not enough to write about it as eloquently as I am able to do about other things. This too–the valuing of the aesthetics of my writing over acknowledging that my class-based anxieties living in Chicago are nothing compared to what any Black person living anywhere in Chicago under any circumstances at any time has had to face–is wrong. If you are a person of color and reading this post, particularly at this time, caused you any harm, I am sorry. I will try not to make this mistake again. If you are white and you want to read more about the devastating effects of discrimination in the housing industry, I highly recommend this extraordinary article by Ta-Nehisi Coates: The Case for Reparations.

Quarantine Diary Day 64: FOMO

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I’ve heard it said a couple of times that being forced to shelter-in-place put an end to fear of missing out. Before this all started, fear of missing out drove us to overcommit and overextend ourselves, to say yes to things when we really wanted to say no, and to stay out longer than we should have. When we did find ourselves at home, fear of being left out drove us to scroll through tagged photos on Instagram and Facebook with knots in our stomachs, and swirling thoughts like, “What was I doing that weekend” and “Why didn’t I know about this?” Now that are our feeds are filled with our immediately family members, at-home graduation, birthday, and anniversary parties, and endless loaves of bread, it’s clear there’s not much going on to be jealous of.

Or is there?

Perhaps I suffer from a more virulent strain of FOMO that everybody else, stemming from a more deeply-rooted insecurity, but I don’t have to look too hard for signs of life carrying on without me.

The underground dinner parties for the DC elite were easy to dismiss; that was never my world and, frankly, I ate up the backlash against people flaunting their privilege in the early days of the pandemic with a healthy side of schadenfreude.

An early suggestion that parents cope with the no playdates guidance by picking a “best friend family” stung a little. There are lots of families with young kids in our area, but we’re no one’s best friend. As my daughter’s budding social life died on the vine, kids from her class reported during Monday Zoom calls that they’d spent the weekend playing with “just one” friend. We tended the hurt with salve we picked up up on the moral high ground and reassurance that this was temporary.

The first time I video chatted my family out west and found my siblings and parents and nephews all together in one place I hung up the phone and cried. They were all outside, all properly socially distanced around the pool, around the firepit. They weren’t doing anything wrong, but they were together and I was starting to come apart.

At the park, I play with my daughter near but not exactly with other families who are less vigilant about keeping their kids apart. Like all kids, my daughter has a violent sense of justice. Usually I try to tamp it down, complicate her view of the world, model empathy and open-mindedness, remind her that we live life in our own lane. Other days, I let her screams of “WHY AREN’T THEY SOCIAL DISTANCING!” go unanswered because I’m as pissed as she is.

In the house, I hear voices drift in from outside, peek out the window and spy my neighbors barbecuing with friends. The good smells good but what I really crave is the conversation.

I attend virtual church with 150+ other people and virtual AA meetings with people who may or may not know my face and my name, but I have yet to be invited to a virtual happy hour.

I know I’m not really missing out. I know we’re all struggling differently, even the people who seem to be taking this all in stride. I know I have a lot and that there are a lot of people who look at the pictures I take and the words that I write about my life and they ache, because they want what I have.

I’m just lonely.

Quarantine Diary Day 55

In the parallel timeline in which coronavirus never made it into human bodies, I’d be in the final week of tapering for my fifth marathon, which I was scheduled to run this Saturday. The taper is the final phase of a marathon training cycle when a runner gradually decreases the mileage and intensity of her workouts in the two to three weeks leading up to a race. The taper is critical to recover from the accumulated fatigue, repair muscle damage, and restore the glycogen stores, metabolic enzymes, and hormones that have been depleted during training. A lot of runners have a hard time with the taper. It is kind of a mindfuck to slow down, to back off the training, after months of buildup and go go go. I don’t. The taper, in my humble-braggy opinion, is the best part of marathon training. It is explicit permission–nay, instruction–to rest.

Remember March? Remember what it was like back the early days of our efforts to flatten the curve, when we still thought the kids might go back to school and the we might all keep our jobs? We were babes in the woods. The IOC was still refusing to admit that the Olympics were postponed. The organizers of the marathon I was planning to run certainly weren’t in any rush to cancel their event, a tiny little thing with less than 1,000 runners in all three races (5k, half, and full marathons) an hour and a half outside of Chicago, and still two full months away. If there was a chance the marathon was still on, I was running it. Training, I figured, would be a breeze with all the extra time on my hands. The first Saturday after we started sheltering in place I ran 15 miles.

Running has always been something I had to work to fit into my life, around family and work and recovery, but I worked hard to make it happen, because I love the sport to a degree that borders on obsessive. Ever since I became a mom, I’ve wished there were more hours in the day, assuming that I’d use the time to run, maybe train for an ultramarathon. All I needed was more time, and then the miles would add up faster than I could count them

For the few weeks of shelter-in-place, they did. My usual six miles on Tuesdays and Thursdays turned to eight. An easy four miles on Friday turned to ten. Cross-training on Mondays turned to more running. Even after it became undeniable that the marathon could not possibly go forward in May, I stuck to my routine of running long on Saturdays, twelve, fourteen, sixteen miles.

I was so grateful to be able to run. In those early weeks I thought, “How lucky I am that I have this sport that I can do outside and all alone? How lucky am I that I don’t need a gym or an instructor or a group? How lucky am I that I have this sport as a coping mechanism, a healthy outlet in which to shoot all my screaming fear, skyrocking anxiety, and scary depression? How lucky am I to have an excuse to leave the house? How lucky am I to have something that lets me turn all this time on my hands into time on my feet, a ritual that magics idleness into productivity.

As my weekly mileage started to creep up, something weird happened, at least it was weird for me. Running started to feel less like fun and more like a task. I was starting to dread waking up early for weekday runs. I was starting to get bored on long weekend runs. I was starting to get tired. Lots of experts have written about how the conditions we are currently living under are, counter to intuition, exhausting. Rolling Stone called the phenomena moral fatigue. Health policy wonks chalk it up to stress and anxiety. I knew this was something different, though. Even pre-quarantine, my body and mind had been giving me inklings that I might be pushing too hard. One of the last conversations I had with my therapist before COVID-19 took over all our conversations was about my ambivalence about going out with my local running club. They run fast and all I wanted to do was run long and slow. Also, even though I was training for them, I kept putting off signing up for races, because that level of commitment felt like too much. In hindsight, I can see that these were early indicators that I was burning out on running.

This kind of burnout is new to me. It’s not like I don’t know about rest. I keep a strict bedtime and take two full days a week off from any type of exercise. In quarantine, I am working less, not commuting, eating nothing but home-cooked meals, and getting closer to eight hours a sleep a night than any previous point in my adult life. So I took a hard look at my training schedule and realized I’d been building or maintaining my mileage without scaling back for about six months, and running without any meaningful break for over year. In the past, injuries and life events had forced me to take hiatuses, which I always resent, but I’ve been blessedly injury-free and able to run as much as I want for a long time now. In other words, I forgot about the concept of periodization, or the process of dividing training into smaller periods of varied volume, intensity, and frequency. The body needs easy weeks every three to four weeks. I also forgot about seasons. The body needs time off. I knew I needed a break, but I resisted giving myself one. Running was habit. Running was an escape. Running was, if you’ll forgive me for perpetuating disordered thinking in the name of honesty, an excuse to eat more indulgently than I otherwise might.

A few weeks ago, my body and mind conspired to put a stop to the madness. I woke up early on a Monday morning and put on my tights and sweat wicking gear, instead of heading out the door to run I sat down on the couch to write. My legs were tired but my mind was firing off ideas. 45 minutes later, too late to finish the miles I had planned,vI was posting my first Quarantine Diary on this blog. That night, I noticed how much energy I had. I was excited about my new writing project. I was, for once, not completely wiped out. It was hard to get to sleep that night. I couldn’t wait to wake up and write again. Ahhh, I sighed. So this is what I’m meant to be doing right now.

Old habits die hard, though. I wrote frantically for the next two weeks, squeezing in time before and after work and parenting. In the evenings, my husband would call up the stairs, “Am I going to see you tonight?” After bottling up my words for so long, I had no shortage of ideas, until very recently. Yesterday morning, I mined the well in my mind and came up dry. I wasn’t overly worried. Something would bubble up before the day was done.

I turned my attention to my tarot deck. I don’t know how to say that it feeling like a hard left turn or without sounding like a flake, so I’ll just acknowledge it and move on: I have a tarot practice. Usually, I just draw a card for the day without thinking asking a specific question, but yesterday I asked, “What is the next right thing in regards to my writing?” I pulled the four of arrows, or swords. From the guidebooks: “Rest and sleep are vital to restore stamina and vitality.” “It is not a weakness to require rest at times.” “This card may also be advising you to keep some new idea to yourself.” The imagery of the card blatantly subverts the ethos of “I’ll rest when I’m dead” and warns instead “Rest now, or you last long.” Sometimes tarot is so on the nose it’s annoying.

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I’ll admit I could stand to wrote more sustainably, and that I probably should if I want to keep doing. And, fine, since the tarot insists (okay, okay, invites), I’ll grudgingly admit that it’s not just the work or the running or the writing that’s wearing me down. My whole life has been an existential sprint from one thing to the next, from college to law school to big law to marriage to parenthood to homeownership. You might think I slowed down when I got sober, but I didn’t, I just changed directions. That’s when I started waking up at I’ve been at 5:00 am to pray and meditate and exercise. When I slept in, inadvertently or intentionally, I felt like a lazy piece of shit. My discipline in matters both physical and spiritual was not just a point of pride, but a matter of life and death in my mind. If I let go of my vice grip on my schedule, what else would slip?

These days, there’s no reason to wake up that early. Work is slow. Running is slower. I have nowhere to go. What if I slept in? What if I took it easy? What if I stopped running, kept eating, and put on five pounds? What would my life feel like if I ran but not a marathon, if I wrote but not a book, if I worked without trying to impress people, if I parented without trying to be the best, if I gave up my endless quest to achieve? I think it might feel like waking up after a good night’s sleep.

Quarantine Diary Day 45

My daughter has always been a kid that preferred the company of adults, or at least the company of me, to that of other kids. Typical oldest daughter, maybe. Maybe a typical only child. Of course, nothing about our own children ever feels typical. Most days, our bond feels special. I love how clearly she prefers me when it looks the way I want love to feel: sweet and easy. I’m talking mama-daughter dates at the museum, sushi dinners, and endless walks around the neighborhood. I worry and chafe when her attachment demands what love actually requires, which is to say, patience and sacrifice. When the neighborhood kids graduated from their parents’ arms to side-by-side play to careening around outside in a big, bonded pack, I longed to send her off with them so I could talk freely with the other moms. All through preschool, my girl stayed glued to my side, whined when I paid more attention to other adults than her, and cried when other kids came too close, touched her toys, or asked me a question.

When she started kindergarten, her world exploded. I was still her sun, but now she was crossing paths with dozens of other little planets. The planets were other kids, and she resisted their pull. She puzzled over their varied atmospheres, their rings, their moons, always too many or too few, their very existence. By the time she realized she might actually like the other planets, they were all spinning in time and she didn’t know how to sync up. We spent a lot of time at parks, her surreptitiously watching other kids play, me gently encouraging her to join, and both of us pretending we didn’t care when it didn’t happen.

Last summer, in the grassy common area between our houses, one of my more brutally honest friends put me on the spot: “Why doesn’t D play with the other kids?” Inside, I jerked at the pain of being found out. Outside, I answered honestly, nonchalantly: “She has a hard time working up the courage to join them. She is waiting for them to invite her in.” My friend dropped her chin and looked at me in disbelief, like I was asking for the moon. “But…kids don’t do that. They just…play.” “I know,” I shrugged. “She’ll figure it out.”

In the fall, my daughter started first grade in a new classroom, at a new school, and her world blew open again, and this time the pieces landed just right. After just a few weeks of trepidation about being the new kid, she settled into her new orbit, and she thrived. She ran around with a pack of kids on the playground, led a friendly war against the boys in her classroom, and came home everyday bubbling over with stories about her day. When she told me her favorite subject at school was recess I about died with pride and relief at the normalcy of it all. Kids without friends never like recess.

By the time winter rolled around, she was planning her own playdates and I breathed another sigh of relief. My only child would not be lonely. The playdates did not go perfectly smoothly. She would have a terrific time for two, three, even four hour stretches, but when it was time to go home, she would break down, devastated that the fun had to end. It was like preschool social interactions in reverse: she cried when I came too close, touched her arm, or asked a question. If I tried to grab her hand, or nudge her toward the door, she’d go alternately boneless or stiff as a board. Eventually we’d make it out the front door, but she’d be inconsolable the whole way home.

After a few of these scenes, I figured out what was going on. Having friends was still so new to her, she didn’t know if she could count on it to last. On our way home from a classmates’ house one evening, I tried to reassure her: “Honey, this is just the beginning. You’re going to get to play with M again.” She wasn’t so sure. She sniffed and tearfully asked, “Do you promise?” I take promises seriously, so I took my time before responding. When I felt sure, I said, “Of course. You’re going to have lots of playdates with lots of friends. I cannot think of any reason in the world you wouldn’t play with M again. We’ll invite her over next week. I promise.”

That was Monday, March 9. By Thursday, school was cancelled through April 12. On March 31, the district announced that schools were closed through April 30. On April 17, we got notice that schools are closed through the end of the year.

We hung D’s class picture on the wall next to the kitchen table where she does her schoolwork now. The first week of quarantine, I’d catch her staring at it throughout the day. Sometimes she’d climb up on her knees in the middle of a meal and start reading her classmates names out loud. Sometimes she’d touch their faces. Six weeks in, she’s hardened. She’s still willing to admit that she misses school and church and choir and swim, but when I ask her who she misses, she says “No one.”

Quarantine Diary: Day -1

I’m not the grocery shopper in my family, or the meal planner, or the cook, or a person who really cares to come down from the high drama in my head to pay much attention to what’s going on in such material realms as the kitchen cabinet or the produce drawer. So, when my husband dares to disrupt my reverie with impossible questions like “What we need?” and “What do you want?” because he’s “going to the store,” it is a Herculean task for me to rack my brain and come up with a list things people eat, much less things my particular people like to eat. Full minutes pass and when I offer up the fruits of my effort–bananas, baby carrots, cereal, oat milk, tea–my husband is, in a word, unimpressed. He tosses my contribution aside with a huffy, eye-rolling, “Nevermind.” He already has the basics covered, a skill I am still not even trying to learn.

On March 12, 2020, chatter about the supply chain and an impending shelter-in-place order and word from my husband that our fridge was empty, yanked me down to earth. Realizing I had to change my ways and take responsibility for feeding my family, I took an hour out of my work day to read up on how to shop for more than four meals at a time, and put together the best damn grocery list I’ve ever seen, just row after row of healthful, efficient, easy meals that we could take turns whipping up for the next few weeks, until this whole thing blew over. I sent the list off to my husband and went back to mainlining coronavirus updates work. A few hours later, I got a text back: “Sooo…grocery shopping not going so great.” My conversion to helpful homemaker was too little, too late.

shelves-1

I knew I wouldn’t be able to work until we had food, so I offered to check the stores near my office. “Should I see what I can find around here?” “Don’t worry about it. I’ll order groceries online.” Obviously, I ignored him. I work within walking distance of a Whole Foods, a downtown Target, and a CVS. I decided to hit them all.

And so it came to pass that I found myself wandering the aisles of a Target in miniature in the middle of the work day, marveling at how quickly the world had gone bleak. The rumors, it turned out, were true: no toilet paper, no sanitizer, no bleach. Also, the men and women to whom preparedness come naturally had already cleared the shelves of all the pantry staples on my beautiful shopping list. No pasta, no rice, no beans, no canned goods, no frozen meals, no flour, no yeast. I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and two bottles of Drano, because it seemed bleach-adjacent. I watched young couples move slowly through the aisles, huddled together, looking for food. I watched people shy away from each other. Everybody seemed lost.

With each empty aisle and averted gaze, I grew increasingly panicky and despondent. This is not a new sensation. I am a highly emotional person, prone to bouts of anxiety, depression, and drama. I have fallen apart in public more times than I can count. Usually, the collapse is internal, a crushing of the soul while my body goes through the motions of putting shampoo in the cart, holding onto my purse, running my card. Nobody knows I am barely keeping it together; I am just some lady shopping. Sometimes the system breaks down, the insides come spilling out, teary, bloody, scary, wet. I scream at the bank teller, tell off the cashier. I make demands. I cry and cry and cry. People see me for who I am.

So, no, there is nothing new about coming unglued in Target. What’s novel is this: this time, I know I am not alone. Every single person I see–stalled out staring at cleaning supplies, puzzling over dwindling options in the pantry, grasping their partner’s hand, frantically texting, all in the middle of a goddamn weekday–they’re all right there with me. We are all anxious and afraid of the exact same thing.

This is the most connected I have ever felt.

I still have no idea that in two days we will be cut off.