Being a failed crafter, writer, singer, painter, actor, improvisor (Yuck. I know.) banjo playing greeting card designing entrepreneur; this forced stay-cation and universal reset should be a blessing.
The creative playing field is as equal as it’s ever going to get. Chris Cuomo and Jon Oliver are filming from their basements.
Celebrities are making terrible Instagram choices and every starlet who’s Zooming has to do her own hair and makeup.
Not so hot without your cinematographer…
But this isn’t about hating on A-listers.
This is about me.
I am failing this pandemic.
Even this post which could be a brilliant, thoughtful, rich and insightful window into my soul destined to go viral, is just a self serving, rambling mess.
My day job, day passion, is in education. Holy crap do I have a lot to say. Am I writing groundbreaking think pieces on the shortcomings and inequities of distant learning?
Am I up on my soap box reminding us all that these inequities are deeply imbedded in public education and have always been there and will always be there as long as we are operating under the systemic oppression of white supremacy?
No. I’m taking naps.
And not even good naps. Like half awake but not willing to give up on it, naps.
I often wish I could spend all day cozy at home with my husband and children. They are the loves of my life. Now that we are together 24/7 we are not baking, learning, or making sidewalk chalk masterpieces.
Our days are filled with yelling and YouTube, more yelling, then bedtime.
I’m not making masks.
I’m watching too much news.
I’m scrolling in bed until 2am.
I’m a terrible friend. After spending all day working, mom-ing, stressing over my ridiculous YOLO parents, and keeping the asshole cat off the computer…I’ve got nothing left. If we can’t get stoned and talk Tiger King, I just can’t return your call now.
I’m a total asshole.
This is not how I imagined myself reacting to an unprecedented global crisis. I always thought of myself as one of the helpers. Personality quizzes place me dead center in the caring quadrant.
You know what I care about now? Myself and the three humans in my direct line of sight. The cat I’m keeping alive in case Instacart goes down.
I’m getting too much pleasure from creeping on neighborhood threads shaming those who don’t jog 23 feet away from people. Calm down, Karen.
I’m so sad. So angry. Not because people’s last words before being placed on a ventilator are “how am I going to pay for this?”
The pools are closed!
The parks department already called it for the whole damn summer!? How could they do this to me! This is the United States of America, and you’re telling me I can’t get wet!
You know what makes me cry? Jagged Little Pill. Every time a song from that masterpiece makes it to my Spotify rotation, I weep. Want to know why?
Because I have Alanis Morissette tickets! With Liz Phair. And Garbage. GARBAGE!
And I can’t go because some stupid f’ing virus. I’m crushed. Devastated.
Sure, people lost their jobs, their business. People are dying. People are risking their life for no money or fame so I can get my Prime packages on time.
But my summer is ruined.
I will rebuild. I will buy an inflatable water slide.
The icing on this shit sandwich, the most unbelievable part of all this, the person in charge is a B list Bond villain. His terrifying press conferences are not motivating me to act. I’m not writing postcards or donating to Act Blue. I’ve done that. It didn’t work.
In my darkest moments I take comfort, not in a higher power, but in history. We have yet as a species attempted to hunt and eat each other.
What are the chances we’ll start now?
This too shall pass and I’ll have to own up to my poor performance. I’m hopeful that I will come across a BuzzFeed article obsolving me of my quarantined sins.
Please let there be an expert out there who puts it in print that it is totally normal, dare say healthy, to turn inward during these troubled times. That morphing into a complete dickhead is an appropriate response to this shared trauma.
If you come across that, let me know. Until then I’ll be grieving the fact that I can’t get my bathtub resurfaced until 2022.