A few normal things from the past couple of weeks: I have an in-person interview, I meet a client face-to-face (well, across a room, but still); I go to a restaurant; I take an Uber; I shop at Canadian Tire; I take my kids out for lunch; Flora and I spend hours looking for the sketchbook that defines her as an artist in a local art store—and not online.
None of it feels normal, though. We wear masks in the stores, my hands burn from the sanitizer. The client and I do not shake hands. The entire time I’m in the Uber, I’m torn between
a) gratitude that this dude is working because I’m too drunk to drive,
b) guilt that I’m endangering his health by providing yet one more contact point of potential infection,
c) mild fear the previous passenger was a COVID carrier and so now, because I’m doing this normal thing, I might accidentally get the virus and infect and kill your grandma,
d) low key hate for your grandma and your auto-immune deficient cousin and also, your respiratory illness suffering son,
e) guilt at the hate, because what sort of monster is this selfish (me),
f) OMFG, it’s just an Uber ride—can you just relax and go with it already?
I don’t know. Maybe. Let me see. No.
Because none of it is normal.
It just is.
At some point, surely, this low grade stress will recede? Perhaps, even, disappear?
I don’t know. Maybe. Let me check. No. Still there.
A few normal things from today: coffee. Morning pages. Lunch with Cinder and Flora. Nap. Work. The work feels like a slog and that’s the new normal too. But maybe the old normal as well. Was it ever easy?
I don’t know. Maybe. Let me check. No. Often a slog, often hard.
A few moments of joy from today: coffee (it was exceptionally good). Lunch with kids. The discovery of James Runcie’s Sidney Chambers murder mysteries and their televised Grantchester version. A cool afternoon breeze. Cardamom in my afternoon tea. The flowers you brought me dropping their petals on the table.
Good things, normal things. Happy moments.