Status Report 20200330

Homegrown daffodils. Why have them at the side of the house where I can’t see them?

I never thought I would say this, but the outer-reaches of suburbia is the place to be during a pandemic because this place is a wasteland of human interaction. Oh wait, I stand corrected. Except for now. People I never, ever, ever, see on my street are suddenly in evidence, out walking with their various dogs. I just read that in France the rule is you cannot be outside walking unless you have a dog with you. This certainly discriminates against people who don’t have a dog, but then again, everybody in France has a dog, so anybody would be able to adhere to this rule. But I dearly hope they do not impose this rule here. I do not have a dog but I would insist they make exceptions for people with cats. On second thought, maybe that would not be good. If I took my cats out for a walk, I would contribute to non-physical distancing because it would consist of me standing at the end of my driveway, holding a leash for three hours while waiting for them to wake up from their nap on the sidewalk.

The peeps to whom I pay not insubstantial taxes for my island lakefront frontage (to receive services like the ability to take my garbage to the landfill transfer station and pump my own water out of the lake) are imploring those of us with summer homes in “cottage country” not to flood the area with our city diseases. A bad year is just getting worse. Except, at the risk of an internet backlash, I will not be heeding this plea. As soon as the ice is out (in a week or two), I will be relocating to my summer house, because it will ramp up (rather than ramp down) both my physical and social distancing. Except from the racoons, owls, and trilliums. Once there, I will hunker down for the duration, like all of those rich New Yorkers who have decamped to the Hamptons. Except without the caviar, crates of Moet, nor private jet. And in contact with the world only through the invisible internet, being gouged by the cellphone providers without whom I would have no internet because north of suburbia, one has limited to no options for connecting to the universe.

Like many of you, my daily routine has been shot to shit. But unlike many of you, I have no excuse. My (reluctant) suburban self-isolation has been ongoing ever since we moved here. Except for the occasional R&R trip to the big smoke, I have been here in my house. Venturing out to the gym each day, then hiding in my office “making pages” as those of us in the writing biz say. The current lack of gym has taken getting used to, though. I have weights of various sizes. I have an ample space for home-gyming. I have YouTube with all the yoga, barre, stretch and strength, cardio blast, etc. workouts one could possibly want. I admit I am currently doing none of these. Every morning, I leap out of bed, put on my workout wear, corral my un-hair-dressed hair in a scrunchy, and sit on the couch. Drinking tea. Eating an English muffin. White. With butter. Leaping out of bed is the first and last leaping I do on any given day. But you have to give me that. I am getting out of bed. Sort of. Usually.

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