It's been a year now. The 'hoax' has been exposed as real. The president who predicted it would go away soon is no longer in office, partly because he did so. 530,000 have died just here alone. The other 330 million of us, more or less, had our lives twisted and narrowed and damn near shelved.
It's a tragedy we'll never completely live down. So I suppose I should have expected it. It's the era to be concerned about everything.
On the NBC Nightly News the other day, I saw a report about people worried about how to act and what to do now that they've received their vaccine shots. As in: Now that I've been cooped up so long, what's going to happen when I go back out into the world?
That's everyone's question. So somebody's worried about this? Really? Granted, it's a little more serious than Potato Head or Dr. Seuss.
Yes, it will be a different world. It won't be as crowded, at least not at first. Hopefully, because nowhere near enough people have been vaccinated to this point to achieve herd immunity. Plus, there's a variant virus out there, apparently, so the immunity that people have gained might be amended and reduced. We may all need a booster at some point.
So yes, one should still wear a mask. And yes, one should not be real eager to mingle with a whole lot of people yet--unless they all have had two shots and waited two weeks.
But if they do--well, maybe it's time to take some limited risks. Yes, you can spread Covid yourself, but you have to have it first. If you mingle only with people who have had the shots and have bothered to wait, though, the odds of that aren't very great, either. I think that in its continued warnings to all, the Center for Disease Control is being very cautious to regain some credibility that it noticeably lost under the last, awful president. But our world will become freer and more enjoyable very soon.
It's a new, hidden benefit of being retired: We got up near the front of the line. Someone cared about us first, or close to it. Who'd a-thunk it?
On the other hand, if I should jump in the car and drive endlessly, using only an empty tank as a limitation, where would I go? And would I enjoy myself if/when I got there? Should I go back to Texas, where I once lived and I still have a few friends, except they've opened everything up and I don't think that's very smart? Does that make any sense?
More to the point: Should I care right now? Is getting out there the point at this point? And there's still a relative paucity of traffic, though lots of people are used to driving much faster with much less interference out there, so there's that. I'm reminded of Gordon Lightfoot:
Carefree Highway, got to see you, my old friend;
Carefree Highway, we've seen better days--
From the morning after blues, from my head down to my shoes:
Carefree Highway, let me slip away,
Slip away on you.
The morning after blues, after we've all shared the blues, is arriving; it's out there on the horizon. Still very early morning, but you can see it now. It's brighter, and not just because Daylight Savings Time's restarting.
I'm going to die someday, but not now, not from this. That much I know. That's all I need to know. It's a relief and a challenge; it's now back out there after the whole world's lost a year somehow. Humanity got pulled off the road and slapped around.
But it's not whether you get knocked down, said Vince Lombardi, it's how many times you get back up. So, let's get back up.
I'm ready, from my head down to my shoes. I made it. Just a few days to wait now. Then I'll get back out on the road. I'll drive over to someone's place and say, "Got to see you, my old friend. We've seen better days."
Yes, but we can see them again. We'll see better days. We've see a few already. Millions won't, and that's tragic. But life's for the living, both the noun and the gerund. The oximeter read 99 and 50 this morning; 99 percent oxygen intake (it can't get to 100), and 50 beats per minute. The walking worked. For an old man like me, I'll take it. Thousands of businesses have been boarded up, but millions of people will be unleashed again through miracles of science and the determination of the human spirit.
I bought some ice cream. I'm not supposed to eat ice cream. I don't care. I'm going to eat some damn ice cream. Not a lot, not pounds and pounds, but I'm going to know what feeling good feels like again, what spoiling myself feels like again.
I did a lot of writing and doubled down on this blog, which I'd already started before this strange and revealing time. I wrote a lot more of them than I thought I would. But it got me out of bed in the morning, which is when I like to write the most. (And again, thanks for reading it)
It helped me establish a rhythm to the days, which on the one hand blurred them together, on the other hand made them go a bit faster. It kept me, too, from being bitter about that. The time is lost; it can't be retrieved. And the number of my days left, while unknown, are far less than others'.
I have a lot of books and didn't finish the supply, but I cut into it significantly. I wouldn't have done it had I not understood that (1) going outside very much would be dangerous and (2) the rest of the known world was in the very same predicament. That's a benefit, though marginal and measured, from this odd time.
I read lots of magazines, too. I'm starting to suffer fatigue. That supply is piling up and I'm falling behind. I'm starting not to care. Is it also because the country has arrested itself, albeit perhaps temporarily, from its existential crisis? What if it has another one? Do we have enough energy to survive that, too?
I might have watched more sports but in fact, I cared about them less than before, finding them less compelling without the crowds to support home teams. To me, the staging of those events seemed almost desperate and needy. I used to write about them a lot, about their larger effects. Now I wonder if I was fooling myself, whether I was one of many who tried to put a larger meaning into what's simply someone else's success at making money.
My escapes feel better when they're voluntary. I felt less rewarded and more played with by the performers of their endeavors. It made me feel no better by the fact that their salaries didn't diminish one bit, at least not per game. Perhaps some needed perspective will be brought to it all, that sports on TV are about the money and not much else.
I hungered for live symphonies, concerts, theater and museums. The liveliness of the Sunday New York Times was challenged by the lack of Broadway productions; its theater section focused instead on people and history. Some of that worked, but it got tired, too.
Some of our favorite businesses, like the pancake house a block away, went under and won't return. Some will come back like magic. Some will take a while. It'll be like lawn mowers; some will kick in right away, some will take a couple of pulls. Life is a series of adjustments, anyhow; some forced upon us, some we've arranged.
Yet, we were stronger than we thought. Two major, simultaneous devastations--one to our democracy, one to our culture, and they continue though we rally against both--and we came horribly close to buckling beneath each of them. We stared into the precipice and pulled ourselves back. This time. Recovery isn't, and won't be, instantaneous.
I fought my way through depression and loneliness. It's one thing to get on the phone and Zoom people; it's quite another to see people and their faces, to laugh while they laugh. We were surrounded in cellophane with no way out. The virus kidnapped us all, the living and the dead. It stole enormous quantities of joy. The lack of fulfillment stifled, smothered, and prevented accomplishments planned and unplanned.
We gritted my way through this. We stared it down. We endured and cut very few corners, took very few knowing chances, at least the ones of us who were smart. I'm proud of it, and you should be, too; it's been a while since we've lived with this kind of discipline. But it was like a huge desert, shouting into an empty valley without an echo. I'm going to find an oasis or two.
I'm going to find some friends and family I haven't seen, those who have also had two shots, maybe even drive up by surprise. Even for five minutes, even one high-five, masked for protection if they haven't done the two-and-two yet. What will they do, turn me away? It's time we got back together. It's way past time. But I'm not going to let the Covid thief steal anything else.
Time to live again. Let's get started. With some caution, of course, but less of it as we go.
Be well. Be careful. Wear a mask. Two shots plus ten days. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
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