Remember when I was whining about the need to clear my calendar and slow down? Well that message was evidently received. April 29 marked the midpoint of my seventh week of COVID19 sheltering in place. I am now officially a slug. Anyone else growing out of their fat jeans? If I visualize receiving motivation to exercise, I wonder what the ethers will toss back? I’m guessing a brownie or two.
I’m going to share the gist of a Facebook meme with you, We’re all caught in the same storm, but we’re not all in the same boat. Sort of sums things up, right? And here’s a quote I saw today on Twitter, Writing is cheaper than therapy. That quote used to apply to me, but since sheltering in place took over my life, gardening is now my therapy of choice. My ratty-looking fingernails are a testament to how often my hands either are buried in potting soil or raking gravel out of the way to end the life of a particularly stubborn weed. I’m deadheading like crazy, and tucking seeds for summer bloomers in between the spring annuals. My roses have never looked better, and my experimental vegetable garden has begun to show signs of a real harvest. What is it about seeing a tomato plant pop out little tomatoes that is so rewarding? I feel accomplished, and yet it’s the plant, not me, doing all the real work.
Social isolation means making a full dinner every day, trying out new recipes, baking too many desserts, relearning how to use the vacuum cleaner, and realizing we don’t own a bucket big enough to accommodate a mop. Giving credit where it’s due, D and I are sharing the housecleaning duties, but by the blurry view from the master bedroom, it seems we’ve both drawn the line at windows. Believe my sincerity when I say I’ve developed a new respect for cleaning ladies and a deep awareness of the limitations of my aging body. I could star in a commercial for Icy Hot, or maybe an AARP article entitled “The Top of the Refrigerator: Letting Go of Expectations.”
I admit, staying at home does bring out the nester in me, but every Domestic Diva has her line in the sand. Mine is sewing. I absolutely hate to sew! I gave away my sewing machine several years ago. Prior to that, half-finished sewing projects flew across the room more than once. Even back in high school, I hated the mandatory sewing classes for girls almost as much as I detested my typing class, but sewing won out on the frustration scale. But, being a conscientious citizen, I jumped onto the mandatory masks bandwagon and made D and I face masks! Hand-stitched face masks: blood-spotted from multiple finger pricks and anointed with curses fueled from pushing a needle through three layers of thick fabric with painfully reddened fingertips. I’m awaiting my good-citizen, housewife-of-the-year award.
In my quest to boost my aging immune system, I’m taking the new vitamins I bought rather than staring the bottles down, hoping absorb their contents telepathically. Can’t count how many bottles of expired vitamins I’ve tossed out pre-COVID19. I so hate swallowing pills, I actually have an expired container of Oxycontin in the medicine cabinet. And no, you can’t have my address.
A cleared appointment calendar gives me the luxury of time to read. I’ve finished several stunning novels over the past few weeks: books that pulled me into another place and time, living the lives of the characters. If you’re looking for a few engrossing reads to go with that cup of tea or glass of wine, give these a try: Before We Were Yours, Lilac Girls, The Winter Garden, and Little Fires Everywhere. Reviews posted on Goodreads.
So, I’m hanging in there, catching up with old friends via telephone, and learning to play digital card games with the kiddos on our phones. And, D and I are becoming more like our dogs: we roam the house all day looking for food; we are told “no” if we get too close to strangers; we get really excited about open doors and car rides (thanks for this one, Gerry.)
Stay well everyone.