100 days

June 24, 2020 - 12:00am -- swingbug

So we’re 15 weeks into this gig now. It’s longer than I expected, I think, when the order first came in.

The outer world is starting to move around again. I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Here at Casa DeArmond we’re still maintaining minimum safe distance.

I wake up and get dressed everyday at the same time. I don’t wear pajamas to work, but I suppose I don’t shy away from jeans with holes in the knees. Make coffee, make toast, greet the fuzzy-headed, groggy teenager should he be awake, and then trudge to “office.” I work a solid 8 hours plus, always at my designated desk. My husband and I have a quick scheduling meeting early in the day to schedule my zoom meetings around his. I take my lunch from noon to 1pm. The three of us eat together and play cribbage on the patio table out back. I check in with the kid about his schedule. (For example: “Planning in doing anything other than Minecraft today? Just curious.”) Then back upstairs to the office for another 4 hours. After work I set up an iPad and “go to” the dojang. My husband cooks dinner, the kid empties the dishwasher, and I fill it up again. Sometimes we go for a walk around the neighborhood. I work for the church for a few hours before bed.

Repeat.

Our cloth masks hang on a peg by the back door, by the basin where we scrub our hands and the washing machine where any contaminated clothes go.

And I’m okay, except when I’m not.

I’ve been to the physical office a grand total of three times since March 16th. I’m at the church once a week or so. Both these places are empty like tombs. I’ve been into a local business exactly twice for necessities. I wince when people get too close.

I’m starting to worry a little about how long it will take me to reintegrate into society when this truly is all over.

I talk to my parents on the phone and wish like crazy that I could hug them. I video chat with friends where we just stare at each other because nothing’s happened to us and we don’t have anything to say. I hit the John Hoskins website every couple of days and watch the numbers climb.

I handed my husband the scissors the other night and asked him to cut my hair.
“Do I need to get you to sign something that says that you understand that I did my best and don’t hold me responsible if it doesn’t turn out, right?”
“I signed our marriage certificate, didn’t I?
“Somehow I don’t feel that was specific enough.”
“You’ll do fine.”

All these new skills we’re learning...

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