Is it strange that I am doing just fine being confined to my little bubble, My Queendom, as I’ve called it many times, and that what I worry about, what I am, in fact, fearful of, is what comes afterward; I am afraid of re-entering the « world, » the « system. » I feel that I have curled so much up into myself that re-entry into « society » will be challenging, to say the least, daunting, to put it more precisely.
I use quotation marks for the concepts of world, system and society because what will that even look like? Different, I hope, to be sure. For the better?
How will this end? One magical day where we rush into each others’ arms and hug and cry and rejoice? Doubtful. A slow, murky progression back to a strange new form of the way it was, no real closure to cleanse our minds with? Much more likely. Will we be kinder to each other, more appreciative of the ability to socialize? Or will the world be a colder place, forever changed bearing scars of paranoia? This is massive. This part is easy. What comes next?
Yesterday we received an amber alert, an escalation of the isolation parameters. Only leave the house for groceries and medical appointments. My daily two-hour walks have been my salvation. I am a strong Type-A. Ants in my pants. Born to move. Restless. I dare say my energy defines me. With this huge part of me thwarted, I am beginning to suffer.
I have often joked that since breeders get so much time off work for maternity leave, we, the non-breeders, should get a vacation bonus at menopause for not having kids. Just seems fair. Now I look out my window and gaze jealously at the dog-owners out walking their dogs, no shame, no guilt, no furtive steps made to look purposeful and necessary. I similarly think that we, the non-dog-owners, should get parallel permission to walk ourselves each day. Is this selfish? Reckless? Well, these are the incestuous thoughts of my shut-in brain, goddamnit, and I really want, I really need, to go for a damn walk.
Shamefully, like a true junkie, I obsessively check Facebook between the regular cycle of puttering (normally called the cycle of procrastination, but there is nothing to put off right now, is there?). Eat, coffee, read, clean, ukulele, write, repeat. A low-speed cyclone of leisure, little black holes of pleasure. How quickly I’ve adapted to the new reality. So why do I think I will be less resilient when it comes time to mentally shapeshift back?