Oh, man. How many months has it been? A hundred? I am certain that those of us who are still in the “alive” category remain at home for the majority of the time. We don’t participate in the street parties or bar hops. And for those heroic people who go to the marches and get shot with rubber bullets in order to change our sick culture, my mask is off to you, with great admiration.

But meanwhile, back at home, where I have memorized every inch of my apartment, things are predictable and boring. What is my daily schedule, you might wonder? Even if you don’t wonder, here it is:

  • Wake up at six. Check phone for important messages. There are never any important messages. Roll over and go back to sleep.
  • Get up and make bed. Husband is long gone to his workshop, where he can work on projects and play his accordion.
  • Wander into the kitchen. Make coffee. Toast 2 pieces of bread that will ultimately taste like cardboard that is crispy. Low carb.
  • Do a lap around the apartment. Dust something. Put in a load of wash.
  • Go out on the balcony to water the plants. My God, another hot one.
  • Wish it was cool enough to walk outside, but since it isn’t, put on a podcast and walk around the apartment until it is over. Never listen to podcasts that last more than thirty five minutes.
  • Do some online grocery shopping.
  • Pick up curbside groceries and curse (in the safety of my car) at all the people out there not wearing masks.
  • Come home, wash hands while singing “Happy Birthday,” and vow to just start counting to twenty, as this song is insufferable.
  • Put away groceries. Wash hands again. Birthdays will never be the same.
  • Sanitize counters.
  • Wander around the apartment. Put clothes in dryer.
  • Read something on the Kindle.
  • Wander around the apartment.
  • Go out on balcony. Still too hot.
  • Nap.
  • Wonder what to make for dinner.
  • Pet the kitten, who is absolutely the most adorable soul on the earth.
  • Make dinner.
  • Eat it.
  • Watch Netflix.


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