all of the selves we Have ever been
It is day 302 of the pandemic.
And it is pouring rain.
What am I going to do with myself all day?
Something happens to my mind on days like this. It feels like the apocalypse has occurred and there is no one left but me. These are the kinds of ideas that enter my mind on days like this:
Whittle an oar out of the coffee table.
Eat until I run out of food.
Reply to all of the text messages received from voting organizations.
Read my insurance policies that are up for renewal.
Reply to all of the happy birthday messages I received back in March from my dentist, gynecologist, and favorite retailers.
Sharpen all of my pencils.
Sort the paper clips by size.
Organize my canned goods alphabetically.
Engage in consumer advocacy by spot-checking Kimberly-Clark. Are there really 110 tissues
in my Kleenex box? Is each 3-ply?
Of all of these ideas, the only one that really appeals to me is to whittle an oar out of the coffee table. Of course, that is the most dangerous and costly choice. Why is that always the case? Dangerous and costly—the definition of sex appeal.
Perhaps I can do this cheaply. I do have that multi-purpose tomato knife that I have used to saw through giant pork butts, but my inner police sergeant screams at me: “Drop the knife.” And I do. I go to my fallback position: laundry. There is always something to wash. I gather and sort. I even add a few clean items to the basket just to get my money’s worth in the laundry room. I pass the day washing, drying, fluffing, folding, and hanging. The familiar ritual is therapeutic. I feel productive. I enjoy the warmth of the clothes as I pull them from the dryer. I inhale the fresh scent of the fabric softener. Yes, there will be a tomorrow!
But back inside my apartment, I still have my eye on the coffee table!