Stir Crazy Level: 8.5
I’m missing a zoom happy hour right now but I had a celebratory glass of wine last night… in my dress sweatpants, of course. The proposal I’ve been working on is finally off the kitchen table and submitted!
*Whoop whoop* [insert churning butter dance].
Keep your fingers crossed for me.
I spent some time making a slideshow that highlights my first couple weeks of social distancing.
I’ll share it after I deliver one of the pieces this weekend. Of course I’ll be I was donning the mask my sister made me between her shifts on the Covid-19 floor. I’m so proud of her. I’m also terrified, concerned, and possibly growing an ulcer. Wine helps with that, right? If not, lie to me.
I had a Gary Allan night earlier this week. Like it’s a Bad Thing, Alright Guy, Half of My Mistakes, Man of Me, It Would Be You, Feeling Like That… I sat on the couch rooting though old pictures ’til I found the one with him (see what I did there, Gary fans? ;). Naturally I was wearing THE most hideous shirt I owned. Before I knew it, there were a half a dozen concert photos from my 20s on Instagram. Apologies if you follow my personal account, it may happen again.
Then I got another bright idea. Balance out the old concert photos with more dance pictures. I’m twitching in dance withdraw. It’s been
50 51 days, which is a painfully long time to involuntarily stay off the dance floor.
I have needs! Dancing meets them. Thanks to the coronapocalypse, those voids have become glaringly apparent. The silver lining: adaptations create growth. Reality: I’m only in the denial/ anger stage. This whole experience is clarifying important life crap. Uncomfortable doesn’t begin to capture it.
For the love of humanity, can someone please organize a hazard-suit dance event already? I’ve had all the epiphanies I can handle for now.
I joke but these are challenging times. A video popped up and made me smile. They created a virtual dance in isolation. This is a prime example of why I love west coast swing.
Easel sessions, bookkeeping, and proposals aside, I’ve made some admirable kitchen messes and planted enough green and purple beans to feed the island’s year round population. I’ve weeded, there’s no longer kale growing from between the pavers, and baby chamomile is sprouting everywhere. My echinacea plants are beginning to make a cameo too.
I’m annoyed by the city closing the beach and bike path, but I’ll keep that part in a draft for now.
While braving the grocery store tonight, I received a text message from someone concerned about how I was doing. The sender wasn’t in my contacts, maybe some numbers didn’t transfer to the new phone? When I got home, I dug out my old one since the sender didn’t reply to my apologetic “who is this?”.
Wish I didn’t have time to scroll through the old phone, skimming the last conversations before replacing the thing. I stay in the present but the phone, complete with bad memories has been in the past. I’d forgotten just how terrible some of those conversations felt.
This year is hard, but so was last year. And the year before.
Sober feelings are appropriate and good for developing character. In times like these, there are no escapes or shortcuts, which is probably ultimately good.
It would be easier to just dance it out but I have a hunch something good is going to come from this.
Until next time, wash your hands a lot. Air hugs.
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