Storyweaver Says Goodbye to 2020
In the beginning, we cowered before every other human
being, masked or unmasked, reticent, scared, leaving plenty of space in between. Virus Armageddon Part One, The Reckoning. Fear of catching the plague, and the very, very worst year in a long time.
Then came the sanitizing of boxes of Cheerios, being afraid to leave the house, go shopping, take a walk, get your teeth cleaned, even
smile at someone from a distance. It was simply never to see your family or
even to touch your own face again for fear of contagion, and maybe scarcely to
breathe.
Eventually we became enveloped in the Curse of the Masks; all you thought you saved on going to work, the movies, a restaurant, outings with friends or
family, a life, quickly was spent on
a bevy of sanitizing wipes and cheap, annoying one-time-use, paper thin coverings being manufactured in what seemed like the billions. The thin ear loops would snap even before you left the house, your only other choice those flimsy
cloth things you had to continually wash. By hand. . . .
Continual hand washing of course precipitated hands dried and chapped
by all the frequent hand washing. And if the hand washing didn’t finish off the
hands, the profuse hand sanitizing completed the job nicely.
Eventually, when the weather warmed, a new activity arose: consuming meals on the
sidewalk, under a plastic tent as people hurried by and/or stared or passing dogs did their thing- the only alternative eating "out" in your car. Lunch, breakfast, even dinner on the pavement or while driving, especially during those months when it stayed lighter longer, became a Thing. These days you barely can stuff that yogurt or slice down your gullet before the sun starts to set. It’s cold
outside, the days are shorter, car “dining” more haphazard, we’ve had
our first hefty snowfall.
So we prepared.
My glove compartment now looks like a small pantry of paper
goods, plastic utensils, and tiny bathroom cups for sipping. The dash is my new table. The back seat holds packages of trail mix, the floor
cradles bottles of water, both plain and sparkling. The trunk is packed floor to ceiling with extra grocery bags and
backup toilet paper. There's a small paper towel section.
While on foot I see others eating in their cars too, through
their windshields, sometimes while I'm waiting to cross the street. They eat
parked and drink moving- the latter usually through those sippy cups with black lids for grownups. Most people do not look particularly comfortable with this arrangement, though occasionally you will find a solo driver cozying
up to a tepid frappuccino and/or bopping silently to some beat on the radio, like a car mime.
I’ve tried to make up for this sorry state of things by consuming
as many jelly donuts as I can to get in the mood of the season, mainly the new
type with the vanilla cream in the center. How could we ever have forgotten how
good these are? Don’t get me wrong, the traditional ones with the actual jelly
filling are still great too, but the new variants (yes, there are chocolate filled) are something to behold.
One late afternoon of a Sunday during the crisply cold Christmas weekend, just as the winter sun was starting to ponder its inevitable descent, I decided we needed to treat ourselves. With the dial on WQXR and the soothing strings of a classical and tranquil melody filling the car, I gave in rather easily to what's now become a totally guilt free pleasure. Slowly, languorously we each consumed a whole milk decaf latte (better froth, for sure!) and two small though quite exquisite chocolate rugelach. This, bien sur, was a high tea- we were transported. And if it all means becoming a pastry sociopath, then so be it. We do what we must to survive.
But I’m fine. Really.
Just another New Year’s of eating out, really.
Au revoir, 2020. . . .
