Marlo, age 2—topless, disheveled and mussed up, glasses on to hide her sins, and less than pleased about life in general— is all of us on day 73 of quarantine.
My nail salon is back in business as of today so, there’s that. I have an appointment tomorrow morning and I may pass out from a happiness-induced combustion. Not many people have ever seen me without my nails done— it’s my thing, I suppose— the same way most people haven’t seen me with make-up on. I may look like a less than glamorous slob but guaranteed that my nails are on point. I also only wear four different shades and alternate between them on a schedule. I told you, it’s my thing.
LET ME HAVE MY THING, PATRICIA!!!
Every time I’ve looked down at my sad, colorless, unkempt fingers, it felt like emotional cutting, an unnecessary reminder that life isn’t what it once was. A manicure shouldn’t elicit such meta feelings but when you’re used to something always being a certain way, it is an unwelcome catalyst of nostalgia— indulging in what was when it is no longer what it has always been. It stings. It’s sad. And it’s not very conducive to remaining optimistic. (Anyone else over optimism?! Just me then. Got it.)
But, tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I can grab onto a sliver of my old life. The life that existed before everything changed for everyone I know and love. The life that kept going, going, going until I was forced to push pause, pause, pause. And, as it turns out, the pause has been refreshing. Annoying and frustrating and mentally challenging. But refreshing. I took this chapter of our lives as an opportunity to look after myself and mine and, as it turns out, It’s been good for my morale to realize that I’m a better person/friend/wife/parent than I’ve ever given myself credit for. I’m better under pressure than I ever previously believed. I’m more of a nurturer and lover than I ever let myself acknowledge and embrace. These last 73 days have proven to me that I’m so more than any of my previously held judgments about who I am and what I have to offer to people, regardless of the situation or uncertainty I find myself in.
That’s not to say that I haven’t had my fair share of less-than-savory moments because I have shown people how to properly wallow in self-pity. There was the bi-polar II disorder, of course, which resulted in a full-blown fetal position crying spree on the bathroom floor that, thank god, occurred when Joe and the kids were on a bike ride. No real light at the end of the tunnel for that one but I got up off my ass, looked at my blotchy swollen face in the mirror, and promptly took my crying into the shower like every other self-respecting woman I know.
There’s also been the minor issue of the yelling. God, there has been so much yelling. I guess I should probably apologize to my kids at some point for all the yelling but just like my lack of manicure, I don’t want to dredge up old wounds, ya know?!
There’s also the obsessive organizing, purging, and cleaning that transpired over the course of the first two weeks of quarantine due to a desire to prove that I was using the time off of life productively. Ironically, such effort has proven pointless all these weeks later due to my children being such terrible roommates. I suppose it couldn’t hurt my kids could apologize to me for that either.
In the grand scheme of things, quarantine didn’t kill me. Literally and figuratively. The alternative to quarantine has killed a lot of people so I’ll take my chances on the inside with three tiny savages and a man with my last name who took over MY office on day 1 any day over that bullshit. I feel like from now on, our generation can say to anyone younger than us who complains about anything deemed remotely trivial by saying,
“BUT DID YOU DIE?!?”
Because we did not. We just kept going. We keep going. And we do it with manicured nails.