Who among us hasn't blundered into a yoga pose every once in a while? Photo by Pixabay.
Bless me, Doctor, for I have sinned. It has been 36 days since I last stepped in my place of work, a beautiful building on Ocean Boulevard at the Promenade, with a window next to my desk, a large patio with garage doors that open from the conference room, three private breakout, or breakdown rooms, a podcast room, a kitchen/breakroom. I’m weeping a little just thinking about it and my brilliant, funny co-workers.
But the fact that I am in isolation and bereft of social engagements doesn’t excuse me from sins I’ve committed during my confinement:
I occasionally take my dogs out for a walk with my similarly isolated daughter, who’s doing a markedly better job of the cloistered life than I am. On these walks, Doctor, I don’t wear a face mask, nor am I wearing one now while I’m typing. I rationalize this omission by claiming to doubt their efficacy in the brief bit of outdoor air I avail myself of, though to my credit, I do don a mask on the even rarer occasions when I visit an essential shop, and there’s been only three in the past 35 days: The Circle K near my house for Gatorade (hydration is essential), Dick’s Palm Tree Liquor near my house for assorted essential things that you can get in liquor stores, and the Paw Shoppe Pet Center near my house for food for Jasper and Annie. These are all essential excursions and I wear my mask when I go to these places, though I admit it’s more so people don’t yell at me rather than my personal safety.
Next, I don’t wash my hands as often as I ought to. I do it more than in the pre-Covid days when I could go for hours without washing my hands. Now? Maybe a half-dozen times a day. I do adhere to the 20-second rule while washing, though only to the tune of “Happy Birthday” when Facebook tells me it’s one of my honest-to-God friend’s birthday, and I can personalize it. Otherwise, I go with Elton John’s “Your Song,” Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon” or Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.”
I don’t hose down or sanitize packages when they’re left on the porch, even if they’re from China. Same with whatever’s inside. I don’t think it’s wrong to sanitize them, but I’m just in a hurry to tear the package open and get to the mystery product inside.
Now that I think of it, I don’t sanitize anything that I should. The TV remote, my iPhone, doorknobs, light switches. Totally unsanitized. Don’t “tsk” me, Doctor. I know I’ve done wrong.
Do I touch my face? I do. Don’t you? I bury my face in my hands when I read or hear about people wanting to be “liberated” and go back into the streets in crowds because of any number of Constitutional amendments or various assorted other rights. I thoughtfully stroke my chin when I’m contemplating what I’m going to write on Days 37 through 75. I rub my eyes in disbelief when I stumble onto a briefing from the White House (why do I continue in this amazed gesture of disbelief, when nothing is truly unbelievable anymore?). These days, Doc, I am all up in my face.
I’m told exercise, maybe 20 minutes a day, does a world of good for those of us in isolation. Exercise is a funny word. I do wander around the house from room to room. Getting dressed, such as it is, requires some exertion on my part. And, of course, there’s the occasional dog walking. But exercise in the classical sense? Push-ups, sit-ups, things that make you sweat a little or that require a Peloton bike? No, I’ve been remiss in that area. Does yoga count? Never mind, I don’t do that either, except by accident. Who among us hasn’t blundered into a Half Moon or Dolphin pose every now and then?
Have I taken advantage of the lockdown to better myself? Well, I’ve read a bit, watched a few episodes of “Shark Tank” (which has resulted in my ending conversations these days with, “and for those reasons, I’m out”) and strummed my guitars some, though without any hopeful sign of improvement. But in terms of broadening my horizons? Like learning a new craft or picking up a foreign language? Those are things I had sort of half-heartedly planned on doing while going into this long and uneventful period of my life, and I did spend about 20 minutes learning how to lip-read. It’s hard, so I gave up. I think it would be easier if I moved to a country where everybody talks without making a sound. Immersion.
A few coping sites suggested I keep a journal for my sanity. It’s not a bad idea. And, if I may be allowed to choose my penance, Doctor, I think that’s what I’ll do, though between you and me, I doubt it’ll work.
Tim Grobaty is a columnist and the Opinions Editor for the Long Beach Post. You can reach him at 562-714-2116, email [email protected], @grobaty on Twitter and Grobaty on Facebook.
Quarantine Chronicles Day 36: Confessions of a coronavirus isolationist
Bless me, Doctor, for I have sinned. It has been 36 days since I last stepped in my place of work, a beautiful building on Ocean Boulevard at the Promenade, with a window next to my desk, a large patio with garage doors that open from the conference room, three private breakout, or breakdown rooms, a podcast room, a kitchen/breakroom. I’m weeping a little just thinking about it and my brilliant, funny co-workers.
But the fact that I am in isolation and bereft of social engagements doesn’t excuse me from sins I’ve committed during my confinement:
I occasionally take my dogs out for a walk with my similarly isolated daughter, who’s doing a markedly better job of the cloistered life than I am. On these walks, Doctor, I don’t wear a face mask, nor am I wearing one now while I’m typing. I rationalize this omission by claiming to doubt their efficacy in the brief bit of outdoor air I avail myself of, though to my credit, I do don a mask on the even rarer occasions when I visit an essential shop, and there’s been only three in the past 35 days: The Circle K near my house for Gatorade (hydration is essential), Dick’s Palm Tree Liquor near my house for assorted essential things that you can get in liquor stores, and the Paw Shoppe Pet Center near my house for food for Jasper and Annie. These are all essential excursions and I wear my mask when I go to these places, though I admit it’s more so people don’t yell at me rather than my personal safety.
Next, I don’t wash my hands as often as I ought to. I do it more than in the pre-Covid days when I could go for hours without washing my hands. Now? Maybe a half-dozen times a day. I do adhere to the 20-second rule while washing, though only to the tune of “Happy Birthday” when Facebook tells me it’s one of my honest-to-God friend’s birthday, and I can personalize it. Otherwise, I go with Elton John’s “Your Song,” Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon” or Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.”
I don’t hose down or sanitize packages when they’re left on the porch, even if they’re from China. Same with whatever’s inside. I don’t think it’s wrong to sanitize them, but I’m just in a hurry to tear the package open and get to the mystery product inside.
Now that I think of it, I don’t sanitize anything that I should. The TV remote, my iPhone, doorknobs, light switches. Totally unsanitized. Don’t “tsk” me, Doctor. I know I’ve done wrong.
Do I touch my face? I do. Don’t you? I bury my face in my hands when I read or hear about people wanting to be “liberated” and go back into the streets in crowds because of any number of Constitutional amendments or various assorted other rights. I thoughtfully stroke my chin when I’m contemplating what I’m going to write on Days 37 through 75. I rub my eyes in disbelief when I stumble onto a briefing from the White House (why do I continue in this amazed gesture of disbelief, when nothing is truly unbelievable anymore?). These days, Doc, I am all up in my face.
I’m told exercise, maybe 20 minutes a day, does a world of good for those of us in isolation. Exercise is a funny word. I do wander around the house from room to room. Getting dressed, such as it is, requires some exertion on my part. And, of course, there’s the occasional dog walking. But exercise in the classical sense? Push-ups, sit-ups, things that make you sweat a little or that require a Peloton bike? No, I’ve been remiss in that area. Does yoga count? Never mind, I don’t do that either, except by accident. Who among us hasn’t blundered into a Half Moon or Dolphin pose every now and then?
Have I taken advantage of the lockdown to better myself? Well, I’ve read a bit, watched a few episodes of “Shark Tank” (which has resulted in my ending conversations these days with, “and for those reasons, I’m out”) and strummed my guitars some, though without any hopeful sign of improvement. But in terms of broadening my horizons? Like learning a new craft or picking up a foreign language? Those are things I had sort of half-heartedly planned on doing while going into this long and uneventful period of my life, and I did spend about 20 minutes learning how to lip-read. It’s hard, so I gave up. I think it would be easier if I moved to a country where everybody talks without making a sound. Immersion.
A few coping sites suggested I keep a journal for my sanity. It’s not a bad idea. And, if I may be allowed to choose my penance, Doctor, I think that’s what I’ll do, though between you and me, I doubt it’ll work.
Tim Grobaty
Tim Grobaty is a columnist and the Opinions Editor for the Long Beach Post. You can reach him at 562-714-2116, email [email protected], @grobaty on Twitter and Grobaty on Facebook.
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