It helps that it’s dark by 5:00. It makes looking for the last bit of lime in the fridge a hair less decadent.
How much I drink (which isn’t really that much although it is as regular as an insulin shot) is off the table for the duration of the pandemic along with what I am wearing, how long my hair is, and whether I’ve read anything other than Outlander novels for the past six weeks.
I give a fuck not.
Today, my husband and I ate sandwiches at a picnic table on the lake in Milwaukee. It was freezing because the sun, which minutes before had made it so warm that I unzipped my jacket, had gone behind clouds and it was 44 degrees with a tiny wind gathering steam. We tried to pretend it was warm but it wasn’t and that it was normal but it wasn’t either. He told me about how, last week when he met his old friend for lunch, how they sat at separate picnic tables, a dozen feet apart. Jesus, I thought, there’s someone more anxious about COVID-19 than me. Amazing.
While we were eating, I had this absurd thought: I’d be fine with all the pandemic restrictions – the masking and social distancing and even wiping down the mail if it comes to that again – if I could get rid of the fucking fear. It is the fear that is making me crazy. And the dread. Fear and dread. My favorites.
I’m in a better mood than I’m conveying here. Of course, the rum helps. Also, I am making chili using the black beans that I cooked from scratch yesterday from the massive stockpile of dried black beans that I bought in March when I thought the pandemic could last forever.
My glass is half empty. But I can fix that.