Captain Mom’s Log: Week 4: Day 27
It’d been two weeks since I started the terrain vehicle. Thought it was time to give the ol’ girl some gas. Besides, we needed provisions pretty badly.
A line of locals wrapped itself around the building. Face masks on. Six feet apart.
“Excuse me,” I hailed a man retrieving the carts from the parking lot.
“How long is the wait to get in?”
“About 10-15 minutes,” his smile meant the world to me right then.
This was real. Our new reality. Face mask on. Six feet apart. Is the mask on right? Is it inside-out? It’s poking me in the eye. How is that even possible? It’s hard to breathe. I open my mouth. I could probably stand to find a mint. Mouth closed, I wait in cue.
It’s funny because I have imagined this moment many times. Not this exact moment, of course, but something similar. End-of-the-world shit. Every time I read history or watch movies, I imagine the scenario in our own world. I am plagued by my empathetic nature. But whenever I imagine war, famine, plague, disease, it’s always in a different time period. It’s dingy, dank 1918 influenza setting. Dusty roads and too many undergarments. Or it’s a cold and desolate bomb-shocked Europe with a Spielberg filter.
This is real. This is our reality. Face masks on. Six feet apart. But it isn’t dark. I am not starving. I am still clothed in something I would proudly wear to work. The sun is shining beautifully. And I am still me. It is still now. Nothing has changed where we are or who we are, unless we let it. I am still a teacher, a mother, a daughter, a friend. I am still me while I wait in this line with my mask on, standing six feet apart from the man ahead of me and the overly talkative lady behind me yammering on her phone.
We are still here.
And...I found a roll of toilet paper. (mic drop)
END TRANSMISSION
A line of locals wrapped itself around the building. Face masks on. Six feet apart.
“Excuse me,” I hailed a man retrieving the carts from the parking lot.
“How long is the wait to get in?”
“About 10-15 minutes,” his smile meant the world to me right then.
This was real. Our new reality. Face mask on. Six feet apart. Is the mask on right? Is it inside-out? It’s poking me in the eye. How is that even possible? It’s hard to breathe. I open my mouth. I could probably stand to find a mint. Mouth closed, I wait in cue.
It’s funny because I have imagined this moment many times. Not this exact moment, of course, but something similar. End-of-the-world shit. Every time I read history or watch movies, I imagine the scenario in our own world. I am plagued by my empathetic nature. But whenever I imagine war, famine, plague, disease, it’s always in a different time period. It’s dingy, dank 1918 influenza setting. Dusty roads and too many undergarments. Or it’s a cold and desolate bomb-shocked Europe with a Spielberg filter.
This is real. This is our reality. Face masks on. Six feet apart. But it isn’t dark. I am not starving. I am still clothed in something I would proudly wear to work. The sun is shining beautifully. And I am still me. It is still now. Nothing has changed where we are or who we are, unless we let it. I am still a teacher, a mother, a daughter, a friend. I am still me while I wait in this line with my mask on, standing six feet apart from the man ahead of me and the overly talkative lady behind me yammering on her phone.
We are still here.
And...I found a roll of toilet paper. (mic drop)
END TRANSMISSION
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