Here's something odd about me in the continuing weeks of the pandemic: as time goes on, I feel safer, but I probably am in reality less safe.
I date my personal lockdown from March 15, easy to remember, the ides of March. On Friday, March 13, we headed west for our Utah ski vacation, got a little way into South Dakota, sanitized a hotel room, and spent the night. The next morning, after consulting some more with our Utah friend, we turned around and headed back home instead. Early Sunday I went for one last trip to the grocery store, and that was it.
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All my plans, like everyone's plans, changed at once. This is a situation that makes me particularly uneasy; I'm not at all good at changing my plans.
I spent about a month actually afraid. I had trouble eating, I had trouble sleeping, I mainlined the news out of Italy and New York City, I obsessively catalogued the freezer and locked the pantry to keep the children from snacking on our hoard. (Lest you think I starved them, I provided a bin full of permitted snacks). For a couple of weeks we ate only out of the pantry. I didn't go outside except to take long solitary walks on empty streets, crossing to avoid other people, bundled in coat and hat that seemed to make my face covering and gloves more normal, just part of living in Minnesota.
And then it started to wear off.
I arranged for grocery delivery. (I washed the containers as they came in.) We ordered pizza, we went to pick up takeout. We started ordering other things, first only essentials, later things just because we wanted them. (I put on gloves to cut open the boxes.)
The weather warmed up and I went in the fenced-in backyard barefoot and barefaced. I put the gloves away. I took longer walks in the sun with the mask but no hat and coat.
I started to feel safe again.
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I guess I only have the energy for so many weeks of fear and grief, compounded by a grave gratefulness that (despite worrying) we have so far been relatively untouched. And of course, compounded further by anger at everyone whose incompetence, malice, or cowardice did its own small part to help this global catastrophe make a smoldering home in our country.
And then there is the bit about having trouble with changed plans. Eventually our changed circumstances, here in the United States, began to feel like a new normal. And I began to see other plans, coming visible over the old ones like lemon-juice writing over a candle flame. A plan to stay home, to wait and see, to keep on keeping on; a plan to wait, likely till fall, a plan for this summer to be a lost summer, a quiet, stay-at-home summer, a contemplative, cloistered summer. Anything happening could be a surprise and a bonus.
We developed a new routine, punctuated by take-out meals. Monday pizza lunch, Thursday casual dinner, Saturday nice dinner. The groceries come on Tuesday. We drank more wine. The teenager's home weightlifting setup arrived; I started strength training every day, and doing yoga videos in between.
And in the routine, I found I could eat again, sleep again.
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Here's the really odd thing. In Minnesota, we have not yet hit the peak. The total cases are rising, rather alarmingly, and our testing has not caught up. I approved of the governor's relatively slow pace of re-opening: the stay-at-home order, the closing of schools; the buying of time; followed by cautious re-opening of businesses based on whether they could safely operate; the ten-person limit on gatherings, the suspension of public religious services. Perhaps it's done what it was meant to, pushed the peak later, gave the health care system a chance to be ready.
The delaying of the peak does, however, mean that every day there are more infected people, perhaps asymptomatic, out in the community. It is objectively more dangerous now then it was on the Ides of March.
And yet, back then, I felt, well, terrified, for myself and for others around me. I just wanted us to stay in the house and not leave it, not call delivery to my door, last as long as we can on the canned goods and frozen meat and dried pasta.
And now, I don't feel that way. I am starting to think thoughts about maybe, if I run out of something we need, going to the store (masked) and going in and picking out the thing and buying it.
I'm not going to do that, because I don't have to. Delivery here is alive and well and slots are not scarce, and I am happy to tip double or more what I did before. Lots of places have curbside pickup. If my toner cartridge runs out, I can order one online (along with a bunch of pens and paper and things, to save trips) and drive to the office supply store where a human being who works at that store will put it in the trunk of my van, which has a button-operated lift gate, and the human being will earn his or her pay while never having to come within six feet of me.
But when I think about putting on a mask and driving to a store and going in to buy my one thing, it doesn't feel frightening anymore. But it did before. Even though now it's probably really more dangerous than it was then.
I think I have simply become used to the sense of danger.
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An alternate explanation: I have a lot of faith in my fellow humans, maybe too much. "People are socially distancing now; they are wearing masks and avoiding coming too close together; the stores are emptier, and also the various shops have put up barriers and tape on the floor and things, and have learned a little about what works and what doesn't, so even though there are more infected people, the people are not getting as close together."
Problem: no data specific to my situation. I am only projecting, imagining what it is like inside the office supply store where I buy my toner cartridges, inside the co-op where I pick up a gallon of milk midweek, inside the coffee shop that is selling good dark roast to go. I imagine that everyone is being as careful as I would be. But reading stories my friends tell on social media, I know that my imagination might be wrong.
Anyway, it's just an interesting observation about my own cognition. Whether it's wishful thinking, or projection, or the soothing balm of familiarity, I feel less afraid even as the passing of time likely makes my reason for fear grow greater. I wonder if my feelings will ever overcome my rational mind; or if someday I will just decide that it's time to go on with life, mask or no mask. It's hard to believe that I might, but then, we are talking about the humanmind here: we rationalize, we back-justify, we change our opinions all the time, and tell ourselves stories about how we were right all along.
At least I'll have this blog post, to limit how much I can fool myself about what I was thinking today.
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