Waving Not Drowning

Craig is a happy guy. A good guy, a kind guy. An everybody-likes-him guy. Kind and caring, listens when you talk. A give you the shirt off his back guy. Which evidently he has done because Craig is now wandering around the grocery store shirtless, in brand new lime green sneakers, complaining to anyone within earshot that today is the day. No more Mister Nice Guy. He's brandishing a japanese eggplant, which in itself is weird seeing as Craig's not a nightshade guy, per se. In the crook of his other elbow is his basket, overflowing with paper towel paper and bananas, a jar of olives, two limes and a kiwi, a rotisserie chicken, side of potato salad, purple Gatorade, and 2 packages of mini Mars bars. It's day 187 of lockdown and evidently Craig's had enough. His job disappeared day one so the first 4 and a half months were spent volunteering, distributing PPE to frontline workers. Then onto baking Bavarian soft pretzels and curating five types of spicy mustard dips....

It's too long. This endless time which she finds herself focused on. Day in and day out. The monotony, the sameness. Is it Tuesday? Or Monday. No, Tuesday. Again. Still. What she hasn't done is laundry. The discovery of an endless supply of underwear- most she never wears because who wears boy cut lace half-thongs in magenta that were purchased on sale in a three pack bundle? But go long enough without laundry and there they are, crumpled in a ball at the bottom of the drawer behind yet another boy cut brief with Everlast on the elastic, so old she can't remember their origin story. In the grand scheme of things, this is but a blip in the ocean of her life. Five decades, and this is a couple of months, maybe a year or more when all is said and done. But the not knowing. The constant hum of high alert while suspended in ignorance of how we move forward is absolutely exhausting. Tinnitus of the mind. She can write. Bake. Clean. Walk. Read. Watch. Laugh. Scream. Cry. B...

Oh Arlene, I think he's smitten, I really do. How can I tell? Please. Did you not see him staring at you the entire call.  He was eye locked onto your square the entire time, I could see it plain as day, at least from where I was sitting. Mind you my monitor isn't as big and fancy as yours, but even so; Bradley was only interested in you. And not to be whatever, but it's not like you were leading the charge on conversation either. You sat there pretty much on display for him to admire. Don't get me wrong- get it where you can, honey. Pickings are slim, especially the longer we're stuck in this. Men our age are dropping like flies because they're too stupid and stubborn to stay home. Going off to get themselves infected tossing a football around in the back yard with their neighbours, or like that skinny fellow, what's his name, the marathon man at the end of your street with the accent, always running like his feet are on fire. Sweat flying off him like a ...