I’ve gotten crazier in the last year. I blame the pandemic.
All of that time I had. Secluded. Social distancing. Avoiding people.
A good time to work on the many projects I hoped to finish: Write a book. Sort through bins of mementos and organize them into scrapbooks. Design and sew a wrap skirt like I had in the 70s. Learn Spanish. Lift weights and sculpt some dope (… working on my Millennial Slang) Baby Boomer biceps and triceps. Take an online woodworking course and build a breakfast nook. Find friends I haven’t seen for decades and reconnect. Read all the classic novels that I have yet to read.
I did none of that. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
What I did do was watch every single season of Schitt’s Creek, Shtisel, Frankie and Grace, RuPaul’s Drag Race and the Handmaid’s Tale. Those titles will tell you, and my therapist, everything you need to know about me.
Oh yes, and I did eat. And did I eat.
And eat. And eat.
No weight lifting, no working out. My upper arms are still flapping in the wind like an old weathered flag against a osteoporosic pole.
No Spanish. Except nada. And perezoso. (lazy, sluggish, slothful)
I never got through the first of many bins full of old pictures and mementos.
Was I ever really that young? OMG, my parents appeared to be so young at the exact same time I thought they were so old. A 5-year old son’s letter to Santa, asking for a mousetrap, rope and a screwdriver. Another son’s handprint turned into a turkey, with the feathers giving thanks for Family, No Homework and Fried Potatoes. A picture of my daughter and her brother in matching outfits I sewed for them with my son sporting a bowl haircut and cute little embroidered shorts (which he would later blame for his career as a Marine Corps Scout sniper).
I had to stop. I was a dry-heaving nostalgia-sobbing mess. My husband was dialing 911.
What I did do was find some old friends and reconnect with them, albeit through the obituaries and visits to the funeral home.
And, oh yes, I bought copies of George Orwell’s “1984” and Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina,” which I read and re-read.
That’s a lie. They’re both right there, by my bedside, stacked with the others. Waiting. Maybe I’ll get to them during the next pandemic.