Remember last Saturday? Back when we were seriously concerned, but could still buy pasta and milk at the supermarket? Back then, I was relatively unfazed.
On March 14, a blanket of toxic fog erupted from all sides of our decrepit station wagon, and the world around me disappeared. I steered toward what I hoped was the side of the road to call the spouse. “The wagon died,” I said, in exactly the same way I would have said, “It’s March fourteenth,” or “We need more broccoli.”
Back then, I was still in shock.
I’d already had the kids home for over a week, and though I knew I’d have them home for three more, that seemed doable.
“Maybe we can have a quiet little spring break in Tahoe,” I thought. But then we were ordered to “shelter in place.”
“Now I’ll have plenty of time to find more work,” I thought. And then the economy tanked.
“Okay. This is a great opportunity to reconnect as a family,” I thought. But then the governor announced that schools may remain closed through the summer—which seems less like reconnecting and more like the tenth circle of hell.
“All right. I can catch up on some house projects I’ve been avoiding, like staining the handrail to the basement…” By that point, I’d downgraded from Hopeful to Resigned, but I was still looking for silver linings. “Maybe we can find some cool art or yoga online…or something.”
BUT THEN, THE WASHING MACHINE BROKE DOWN.
Though embarrassing to admit, that’s the moment when the enormity of the current public health crisis hit me full force. While I’ve been following the news and the new rules, I’ve been operating as if I were gathering information for an ethnographic study: “Wow. Look at how people are behaving during this moment of historical significance.” It just didn’t feel real.
*Thanks to Ellen Schatz for the post title and for being smart and funny even while the world is falling apart.