the ocean

Over the past year of quarantine, I've sampled quite a number of YouTube workouts. I'm frankly not sure how effective any workout regime could be under circumstances where I am in my house all day with various cheeses, but I do think these workouts have at least given me a fighting chance. And they are fascinating, because it turns out the type of people who are inclined to post footage of themselves grunting and sweating are also likely to overshare in other, more entertaining ways. One lady in particular managed to fit in complaints about her husband buying the wrong kind of bottled water (outrageous), her mother letting the kids listen to music with adult content (kids gotta learn about WAPs at some point), and her coworkers all being dumber than her (natch) in between sets of burpees and vaguely threatening shouts of encouragement. There's a also a couple that sometimes allows their infant to freely crawl about the room grasping at outlets and sharp objects as they sweat to the oldies, not to mention a lady who often wears tight white workout pants with no underwear, such that one can easily discern her Grey's Anatomy. So in addition to a workout, I get a terrifying encounter with the vast, strange expanse of humanity.

As the vaccinations roll out and it becomes safer, I expect I'll probably return to my gym, so I can pay $68 a month for the pleasure of having a general studies major inflict her taste in music on me while forcing me to do mountain climbers. But I will definitely keep my YouTube friends in the picture as well. I view it as I'm basically performing wellness checks and burning calories at the same time.

I have been trapped in my home for the last twenty minutes due to my overwhelming desire to avoid making small talk with my neighbors.

You see, I had all sorts of extravagant plans in mind, from taking the dog out to picking up the misdirected mail someone left outside our door, but I simply cannot take the risk of becoming involved in the long-running discussion of the weather and everyone's health that is currently the hottest ticket in the townhouse complex courtyard. 

It's not that I dislike my neighbors. Well, let's put a pin in that, because I can't exactly say I love the lady who always seems to find a way to ask about something painful or embarrassing when I see her. ("And did I hear that your friend was killed by a drunk driver?") Or the lady who lets her dogs poop on our driveway and doesn't even apologize when caught. Or the lady who always leaves her blinds up, even when she's, like, having people over to dance around in her kitchen singing into spatulas to Motown like the cast of The Big Chill. Okay, these all may be the same lady, but the point is that I just don't want to talk to her if I can avoid it. Is that so wrong?

And yes, I do feel bad for the young people who have somehow been pulled into her orbit and are right now being quizzed on whether they've ever seen the landscapers looking suspicious lately, but they are young and will bounce back. Also they still have their Christmas wreath up in April, so screw them.

The good news is that I just got groceries yesterday, so I could probably sequester for a week or more if necessary. That's up to my neighbor's lung capacity and general stamina now.

Last year, our Easter was cancelled outright due to the pandemic.  My mother was overcome with visions of the Illinois State Police erecting barricades and preventing 70-year-olds from entering Oak Park to see their grandchildren, and my sister was essentially erecting barricades to stop anyone who might conceivably cough on her children.  So I think we did a Zoom or something.  I was actually kind of cool with not sitting in a packed church for an hour and a half, though I did miss the traditional brunch buffet.

Now, with things gradually improving on the plague front, we were able to get together to allow the children to fight over the empty plastic eggs in their backyard and watch the half-hour mass while gradually stripping nude, at least in the case of my niece.  The catering was provided by, well, us, including Ian's spectacular rendition of Patti LaBelle's mac and cheese recipe and a store-bought lamb cake, which was quickly beheaded in the traditional style.  The Diet Coke flowed freely and, for a brief time, even Bluey himself was in attendance.  It was a gala affair.

Of course, we have a long way to go before we're back to anything approaching normal, and I definitely wouldn't trade human lives for a chance to visit an omelette station, but I do take the little victories where we can get them.  We may not have been able to spend St. Patrick's Day drunkenly fingerbanging in an alley, but at least we're tricking children into thinking there's an Easter Bunny, damn it.

I've finally conceded to the inevitable and started working on an estate plan. For the longest time, my plan was simply to not ever die, which had an elegant simplicity to it. But with the pandemic, the odds of my going what I believe the professionals refer to as "coocoo bananas" and causing harm to myself or others seemed to grow exponentially, along with the odds of accidentally spending an entire day watching YouTube videos of Michelle Williams from Destiny's Child messing up the choreography. Also, I am deeply concerned that the government not get one red cent of my estate, as I feel certain they would waste it on something frivolous like providing health care to the needy. I had that money set aside for in-app purchases on iPhone games designed for Korean teenagers, okay Kommandant Biden?