This morning I found myself counting back to when life when from “normal” to, well, to whatever is happening right now:
3 weeks since the cascade of cancellations began.
3 weeks since the kids were in school.
3 weeks since my team was together at the office.
3 weeks since we were allowed to stand closer than 6 feet from friends and neighbors.
3 weeks since I brought our neighbor out for her first mountain bike lesson.
3 weeks since I felt safe shopping for groceries.
5 weeks since I’m been able to hug my mom and dad (they went away at the end of February and came back during the lockdown).
May 4th is the date we are looking forward to with hope. Hope the kids will go back to school. Hope for a limited sports schedule. Hope we will return to our office. Hope for some semblance of normal.
I recognize this hope may be irrational, and that likely the cancellations will keep coming. And most days I’m fine. We are lucky. But as I wrote the list above, I realized I’m not as fine as I thought.
I’m worried. I have “big” non-specific worries about our neighbors, our clients, and the businesses in our community. I have specific worries about the long term impacts on our children’s lives and emotional health, on our businesses, and on our lives.
I’m irritated. With the piles of stuff growing in our living room. At my kids for not helping enough around the house. At my husband, who gets to leave the house to work out of his shop. At strangers yelling at friends for wearing a mask. At people who are still gathering, even in the woods.
I’m particularly irritated with whoever scheduled the Plexaderm commercial which plays on my local news station – Every. Single. Damn. Day. Seriously. Please stop the run or make a new commercial.
And I’m sad. I didn’t realize how much I need people. I didn’t realize how close to the surface the tears were until I started writing this, and they decided to make an appearance.
Today I’m not okay. And that’s okay.