March 18th 2020
Today is quarantine day two and my first full day of self-isolation.
I’m starting a new paragraph already because that first sentence is so heavy it pushed the rest of the words down a bit. It’s so unbelievable that it needs to stand on it’s own, separated from the rest of the content. It’s a sentence so absurdly mad (a wild tautology appeared) that it needs to be left by itself. It needs to self-isolate, if you like.
Leaving that sorry by itself kind of undoes most of the gravitas that was just laden upon the first (non-date) sentence of this post, so I’m also sorry about that.
I think you can tell from the rambled beginning to this blog that I’ve already begun to lose my mind. And, like, I’m fine today, but the thing that’s making me nuts is the thought of still being here in three months time.
Imagine it’s Sunday morning, right. On Sunday, in this fictitious scenario that I’m using analagously to describe what will be my state of mind for the next three to twelve working months, I have plans to go out for dinner. I’m having a Sunday roast with some friends. The thought of that is mostly why I chose Sunday to be the day this fictitious scenario occurs.
I wake up on Sunday morning, and I have nothing to do until my lunch. The problem is, I don’t know when we’re meeting. It could be 2pm or 5pm, my friends haven’t told me yet. I know Aaron likes an early roast, but I’d rather 5pm because otherwise I’ll be hungry later. However, if it’s 2pm then I should probably start getting ready in case it takes me 3 hours to do my hair.
For the entirety of Sunday morning, even though I’m excited about going out for a Sunday roast, I’ll feel anxious. I’ll look at anything that tells the time — my phone, a watch, a grandfather clock, the Roman Marble Sundial on the other side of the swimming pool in the garden (if it’s fiction I may as well make myself rich) — repeatedly for the four hours before I need to leave.
I don’t know why, but when I’ve got something to do, but it’s not until a bit later, I get super anxious. It’ll make me feel weird. Especially if I don’t know what the plan is. Like I can’t relax because I have plans later, but I don’t know what the plan is. I like to have a clear image in my mind before I commit to things. Otherwise I get foggy.
And that’s kind of how I feel about this whole potentially apocalyptic pandemic thing. I feel like something’s coming, but for now I’m just waiting around. It’s not really important whether that ‘something’ that is ‘coming’ is either A) The End of the F**king World (five points to Gryffindor if you know why I broke sentence case and censored myself there), or B) everyone going back to work in three months when this has all blown over and being like “woah that was a weird thing that happened, wasn’t it Carole?”
What’s making me anxious isn’t the outcome, it’s the waiting. And I don’t know how long I’ll be waiting for. And, like, ostensibly (I wanted to use that word but I’m not 100% convinced it’s accurate in context here, but let’s find out…) the waiting isn’t a bad thing. I get to stay at home all day in my pyjamas and eat more biscuits than I normally would. That’s basically fine.
Okay sure, in the real life version of my roast dinner metaphor the waiting around could possibly end in the extinction or mass-erosion of mankind as we know it, but it’s not so much that I’m worried about.
Until tomorrow, it’s just the waiting.