Current status: The Mister is on Day 4 of some sort of depths-of-the-swamp illness. His cough is barky and he can't sit upright for more than a few minutes. He's quarantined himself with the bare necessities: Advil, prescription cough syrup, an iPad, all of the blankets in the house. Meanwhile, down the hall, the Little Missy has an abbreviated version of it. Her cough is more Baby Seal and her medicine is the Amazon Original Series "Just Add Magic," about three preteens embedded in an ages-old mystery that requires them to make spells from an old cookbook they've been charged with keeping safe from ... I'm not sure. It's, um, super good -- seriously, watch it -- and I feel most closely connected to Darby, the red-haired jokester who sucks at basketball. Sometimes we watch the same episode twice in a row, hashtag, screentime.
Which brings us to me: Still uninfected, knock wood, so I'm going to do what you would do.
Pretend it's 2004.
Me, saying goodnight to the dark mass beneath many blankets in the quarantine room: "I'm going to pretend it's 2004"
The dark mass that I met two years after 2004: "you're going to blog?"
Me: "I am."
Him: "Don't get dehydrated."
Fourteen years ago, I spent a lot of time staying up late and putting words on the internet. I don't do that as much anymore because of about 90 reasons, starting with: I don't have enough hubris left to pretend anyone gives a rip about the minutiae of my day-to-day; Much of my fodder came from hanging out in bars and making social commentary that I would no longer feel comfortable making because I'm no longer a total jerk; I only have about 2 hours a day for hobbies, so I have whittled my interests down to running and reading for now -- though Chuck bought me crafting materials for Valentine's Day so I have big dreams of cross stitching a family portrait that hangs in a place of prominence. Have you guys met my internal life? It's so satisfying.
But tonight, it's 2004 again. And I have ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD.
Some Differences Between Me at 28 versus Me at 42
2004: I would be drinking Yellow Tail Shiraz and I would definitely crack into the second bottle.
2018: I'm drinking an Old Fashioned, which I've ad-libbed for optimal deliciousness.
It's Not 2004 Old Fashioned Recipe
One incredibly cool old fashioned glass
a squirt of Cherry Heering (this is the ad-libbed part)
One mega ice cube
(I'm sure this is controversial, especially to people who have touched Wisconsin)
2004: Cigarette breaks between paragraphs and during rereads. A required accessory for a certain writerly pensiveness.
2018: Fond memories of cigarette breaks between paragraphs and during rereads, but a healthy fear of painful death -- coupled with the desire to run a 1:45 half-marathon this year -- that makes it impossible for me to smoke. And Chuck. Chuck also makes it impossible for me to smoke. And Chach. Oh god. Cannot smoke when one has a Chach.
Speaking of marathons
2004: I would probably watch 3-4 movies, starting one up as the credits rolled on the last. Otherwise, I'd power-watch, like, "Buffy" or "Dawson," "Sex and the City," or "The OC."
2018: I'm trying to decide between marathoning "Mozart in the Jungle," this documentary about Jonathan Gold eating his way through LA, or "Insecure," which I've fallen behind on. This decision is crippling to me, so I'm sitting at the kitchen table because walking into the living room will mean making a decision. Sometimes, I've learned, not making a decision is a decision. So wise at 42.
Day after eats
2004: A drive through window or two.
2018: A smoothie in the morning, leftover quinoa-broccoli thing that was amazing, beet juice in the afternoon.
2004: Phone calls, so many phone calls, is anyone awake at 3 a.m and do you want to, just like, talk.
2018: Makes sure young child is properly tucked into the sleeping bag she calls California.
New Current Status: The timed light, which tends to be a silent indicator that the night is ending, has gone off. Miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
To Do List: Sudden desire to paint nails purple. Friend currently has purple nails. Did not steal idea from her.
Mature idea: Will set alarm so I go to bed at a reasonable hour, rather than knowing I made a bad decision when I see the sunrise and the finale of "Mozart"
Second thought: If I'm going to have the plague anyway -- I mean, I shared a straw today with Mini Plague on a Shamrock Shake -- does it matter how bad I feel tomorrow? We all know it's going to end in watching 28 episodes of "Just Add Magic."
Drinks glass of water, sticking to hydration promise.
Watches Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
Eats Gluten. Has seconds.
Wonders if Dorit is a sociopath.
Decides to have one more drink.
Puts away the Cherry Heering, the whiskey, the ice cubes. Feels remarkably fit to be a human being. And has written blog post. Productive!