Wassup?
This late night Disco Diaries is brought to you by the letter “B” — Bourbon in the tea, Blanket in the park, and Bosom friend on the patio for a socially distanced hang.
It’s still happening
Conversations between I and a few of my closest companions have had a theme, lately. We send raging texts that land in a quiet phone buzz, and huddle in virtual FaceTime corners to question what the hell is up with so many people’s current social decisions. I’ve spent my share of nights wondering why I wasn’t invited to something. Now I sit in hot baths with a glass of wine by my side and wonder why the hell I am invited, why anyone is invited, when we should be staying distanced to decrease the spread.
Sometimes I am jealous when I see people crowded on bar patios, laughing their cares away. Wouldn’t it be nice to have some reckless, potentially lethal fun? But thankfully it’s impossible. My gift of logic-shattering anxiety keeps me on my toes. I wouldn’t be able to forget the pandemic if I tried. All year, in the back of my mind, I’ve known that dropping my guard could actually be the cause of someone’s death.
For once, this level of concern is not illogical. Looking from a pre-COVID perspective, it would seem neurotic to avoid a small social gathering in a friend’s apartment. Now, not so much. Not after understanding how the virus spreads invisibly, silently, hitting hard where you may not see it. Take this example, for instance, where seven people died as the result of an outbreak from a wedding they didn’t even attend.
Being imperfect as I am, I’ve had a number of times when I’ve played a little loose. I’ve made impulse decisions that, in hindsight, weren’t in line with my boundaries and what I understand to be safe. I do this when I drive too, sometimes. I’ll change lanes last minute without being 100% confident that my path is clear, or make a turn without double checking for pedestrians. Each time I feel endangered from the recklessness, and vow to be more careful in the future.
Jake has been gone this week, and I’ve had a little taste of what it’d be like to live alone in quarantine. With one less creature around to remind me of mealtimes, the tiny amount of structure that’s there collapses a little more, as if it sits on a swampy foundation that’s shifting and sinking. Dreams feel like they take up more of my attention than my waking hours.
When darkness comes by 6 p.m., time runs together even more. I try to make the most of the daylight. My agenda is filled with tiny tasks, imploring me to walk one block to the mail box to send a letter, or to drive to the pet store to pickup cat food. Though I make at least one solo plan each day to get myself out of the apartment, sometimes a week still feels like one long night with a few dreamy errands in the middle.
In other words, even though we’re eight months into this thing, I still feel pretty much the same. I’m just resisting it less, letting it be the norm.
The thing I miss the most is any sense of spontaneity. I’m trying to be careful and I’m trying to stay upbeat, and for me that means carefully scheduling my movie nights and my take-out dinners in order to have something to look forward to.
This is another thing we discuss, my companions and I. We share our plans for entertainment, excitement, and self-care.
“I’m going to take a bath and read!”
“Oooo, that sounds nice!”
Or,
“I think I’ll make a nice sandwich and have it in the park!”
“Yes, get some sun!”
I’ve never been so ready to support someone’s personal plans, and I’ve never felt so encouraged to do nice things for myself.
I’m glad I have some friends who are experiencing this raging pandemic in a similar way. I need them to encourage me, to ensure me that I’m not being crazy in my prudence, and to remind me that it’s very valid to still feel some kind of unpleasant way because of the situation.
Bitter carrots
Long ago at a time called March, I decided to try my hand at growing some vegetables. In an ideal world, I would be a very successful plant lady, with a year-round herb garden and a pantry of my own canned tomatoes and pickled jalapeños. This could be me someday, but it’s definitely a work in progress.
Year one began with a bundle of seeds given to me by a friend. I met her at her coffee shop job, and she handed me a big ziplock bag filled with smaller ziplock bags labeled with sharpies. I took the bags home and wiped down each of them with a disinfectant wipe, because I picked up this year’s new habits early on.
After some desperate but lazy Googling, I was ready. Loose soil went into tiny compostable pots, which I then punctured with a pencil. I dropped the seeds into the holes, and patted more soil on top. I tore up bits of cardboard to label each seed: cauliflower, spinach, tomatoes, carrots, bell peppers, and jalapeños.
The results were mixed, in that some little seedlings took longer to die than others. Most of them made an appearance at some point, but only the carrots and spinach, which I sowed directly into big pots outside, ever grew past a few inches.
I made one spinach harvest in early summer, and I was quite pleased. It was the first time I ate something I grew from seed. Probably a person with experience could have kept the spinach supply going, but after the one meal I lost my will to commit and let it grow free and tall and wild and possibly useless.
Then there were/are the carrots. Their subterranean existence is a mystery to me. Lush, green tops pour out over the pot, but I haven’t dared dig one up — until today. It was the tiniest snack I’ve ever seen, but still I took it into the kitchen sink, washed it, and peeled it. I left on the greens so I’d have something to hold. I took a rabbit-like nibble and made a terrible face. It was bitter, not sweet, as I imagine the soil in its pot would taste.
What if you…
Write down three things that you’ve done that you’d find admirable if done by someone else.
Thank you so much for reading. It means the world!
xo
Katya
Good stuff.