by Gail Forrest
I took a shower today! Admittedly it’s been a few days but it was time. And by the way, what time is it? I stopped looking on March 15. It doesn’t really matter at the moment because all the moments are the same.
Have I dropped into Groundhog Day? Thankfully, however, my body clock can recall the cocktail hour. And feel lucky to have learned how to make a martini just in the nick of time. I am a very messy shaker but refuse to stir. Shaking is my only cardio these days. I’m also comforted knowing the gigantic bottle of Absolut I bought can be used as hand sanitizer. I hope it can also clear up the rash on my face which grows bigger with each Corona update.
I wear the same clothes every day now. I do, however, still have the mental fortitude to change my underwear. Happily, since I am in a bra-free zone there’s no hand laundry to do. Sadly I look longingly at the cute top I bought the day before social isolation began. It is a darling addition to the clothes I haven’t had on in 3 weeks and may not for 16 more. I visit my closet and think about a different outfit but quickly change my mind as no one sees me but me. As for mirrors, no longer look except to check on my rash, let out a small scream and burst into tears. No more make-up is freeing but frightening.
I venture out daily for a walk with my dog Tulip but look like the local axe murderer, not the friendly neighbour. I am covered up from head to toe: black down coat, full face scarf, hat, gloves, and sunglasses- not a speck of skin is visible. We safely stay six feet away from anything that moves.
I have thought about keeping a tape measure in my coat pocket as I was never good at math/measuring.
My head is on the verge of exploding from the “breaking news” and have now put a limit on how much I watch. I have whittled it down from 24/7 to six minutes. I have watched more “Friends” re-runs than any person on the planet and have started to believe they are my friends.
The first time I noticed I was still wearing what I slept in at 3:00 p.m shocked the crap out of me but not anymore. Why change when my flannel PJs are my version of comfort food? Which reminds me of the gallon of chocolate ice cream I need to eat later. Is it good on deep-dish pizza?
Welcome to my new normal and the existential dilemma, “to shower or not to shower.”