(HUMOR?) COLUMN
Do I Need to Bonjour People? I Can’t Remember.
May 15, 2021 — Cher journal,
Idk, I mean —
I have to venture out for my first “post-lockdown social rehab” — “out” meaning here “meeting a couple of friends crammed into some way-too-expensive all-in-one room apartment” (typical big cities y’know — in which you can take a d*mp and talk to your neighbor through that ONE Velux skylight, all the while fixing yourself breakfast over the stove).
Let’s dram’ this up into a First World Problem with additional context: this movie would be entitled Putain, la pandémie ! (successfully dubbed Phuck, Pandemic!). It’d be set in a dystopian near future (for instance, in the endless year of our Lord 2020 no. 12) at the heart of North Parisia (remember: dramatization). The only outdoorsy activities allowed by our One True Government at the moment being: A) riding the metro, B) going to work, C) visiting graveyards. A course of events which pretty much reminds me the good old rat race we are expected to go back to ASAP, if you ask me.
I̵ ̵d̵i̵g̵r̵e̵s̵s̵ ̵a̵n̵d̵ ̵d̵i̵v̵e̵r̵t̵ ̵h̵e̵r̵e̵ ̵b̵u̵t̵ ̵ — ̵ ̵e̵v̵e̵r̵y̵ ̵t̵i̵m̵e̵ ̵t̵h̵a̵t̵ ̵I̵ ̵f̵i̵n̵d̵ ̵m̵y̵s̵e̵l̵f̵ ̵p̵e̵r̵i̵o̵d̵i̵n̵g̵ ̵a̵ ̵t̵w̵o̵-̵c̵e̵n̵t̵s̵ ̵w̵i̵t̵h̵ ̵a̵n̵ “̵i̵f̵-y̵o̵u̵-̵a̵s̵k̵-̵m̵e̵”̵ ̵p̵h̵r̵a̵s̵e̵,̵ ̵t̵h̵e̵r̵e̵’̵s̵ ̵t̵h̵a̵t̵ ̵t̵i̵n̵y̵ ̵me̵-̵v̵o̵i̵c̵e̵ ̵i̵n̵ ̵m̵y̵ ̵h̵e̵a̵d̵ ̵s̵n̵a̵p̵p̵i̵n̵g̵ ̵r̵i̵g̵h̵t̵ ̵a̵w̵a̵y̵ ̵ — ̵ “̵l̵o̵o̵k̵-n̵o̵-̵o̵n̵e̵-̵a̵s̵k̵e̵d̵-̵y̵o̵u̵,̵ ̵A̵l̵l̵i̵e̵”̵
The thing is — how do you even DRESS and COMB and INTERACT properly in the Wild Wild Outside? See, I’ve kinda turned feral-childy in the showery-sexy-neatly-groomy department (… who hasn’t).
Mind you: it has only been a couple of days — roughly an aeon or two on a 2020-esque scale! — since I last went ninja-grocerying in the Wild Wild Outside.
Hands down geared up, all maskily-clad for my own lil’ Iliad.
It was 8 P.M. sharp on a warm, yet-to-be-dusky Sunday sunset of May and here I was, Will-Smithing my way down the strangely empty boulevard de Port-Royal to the local corner shop — minus the scientific genius backstory, the pull-up arms, the actual danger of creatures lurking and basically, the whole Being-Legend aura thing.
A complete stranger — coming in the shape of an old lady walking her pet — and I even graciously Bonjoured each other, as if the street was ours and we were chilling. Actually, it was. Had we lingered any longer, I would have called her dude and offered a beer.
Since a Twitter user suggested that we Parisians clapped from our windows every night at 8 in praise of our covid-fighting nursing staff — a trend that, I believe, took off in other countries as well — … Well, it has become my secret occasional ego-kink to secretly walk around to a hail of glorious applause. It works wonders on your self-esteem, 10/10 Recommend.
Their clapping makes me feel validated in my tireless attempt at exemplary adulting (with a few mishaps). “F*ckyea! Buying food again! You remembered! Going places girl!”
I̵f̵ ̵y̵o̵u̵ ̵s̵a̵y̵ ̵s̵o̵m̵e̵o̵n̵e̵’̵s̵ ̵”̵g̵o̵i̵n̵g̵ ̵p̵l̵a̵c̵e̵s̵”̵ ̵d̵u̵r̵i̵n̵g̵ ̵a̵ ̵w̵o̵r̵l̵d̵w̵i̵d̵e̵ ̵l̵o̵c̵k̵d̵o̵w̵n̵,̵ ̵a̵r̵e̵ ̵y̵o̵u̵ ̵p̵r̵a̵i̵s̵i̵n̵g̵ ̵o̵r̵ ̵h̵u̵r̵t̵i̵n̵g̵ ̵t̵h̵e̵m̵?̵
It makes me feel as though I’m a popular Big Brother housemate leaving the House after two months or so of being cut off (and living in shiny velvet sweatpants) (and, oddly enough, wearing shades indoors all the time).
Merde, I digressed.
Anyway. I went out to the corner shop WITHOUT my attestation sur l’honneur (our French self-sworn affidavit in which I, quote, state on my honor that my 200-meter outing is an “emergency that cannot be postponed” — and I’m trying to figure where “hunting food at the shop” and “using legs to prevent any further muscular atrophy” stands on the French Government’s reference frame.
I felt dangerous doing so (à la thug life) (but not too thuggy-thuggy either).
I was sporting my best hoodie-flipflops-messy-bun combo — perfect raw material for Netflix’s next r̶o̶m̶a̶n̶t̶i̶c̶ ̶T̶V̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶w uncomfortable true crime docuseries Allie in Paris: High-end low-life. Despite my looking like the successful CEO of a freelance business venture in the Meth Industry (OR, a hooded hacker getting very little sunlight with low-to-nil socialization), well — no cops showed up nor did they ID-check me. The news anchor had p̶r̶o̶m̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶u̶s̶ explained there would be extra military to e̶n̶f̶o̶r̶c̶e̶ ensure lockdown measures would be applied, which I guess set my expectations as high as a kid in their first Disneyland visit — and that no Mickey was ever found that day.
Fast forward five minutes — I’ve made it to the supermarket like it’s Château Marmont and I’m a second-rate real-TV celebrity — meaning I was able to make my way inside yet I had to wait my turn in line with the rest of the masked herd.
Apparently, the whole world had planned to spend this new “lockdown” thing shitting their pants — the only reason I see to explain the TP frenzy that hit hard supermarkets worldwide. Gazing vacantly at the vacant shelf spots, I couldn’t help but thinking — true, this won’t be the thrill of the decade. True, the uncertainty of our futures lies so blatantly ahead, my short-sightedness can’t blur it away. If anything, what’s in it for us? Will the “World Afterwards” happen? With over seven billion souls to get onboard, the Bystander Effect and its inherent diffusion of responsibility have a bright future ahead — unlike us. So much for climate crisis, global health or worldwide peace.
So far, the only tangible change already in motion in the World Afterwards is that coughing has become the new farting. Baby steps, this New Wiser World.
While extroverts and workaholics started breaking down in the comfort of their home-office on Day 2 or so — I, on the other hand, was intent on making the most of this much-needed, temporary bubble of rest — shamelessly
staying home,
sleeping more,
slowing down,
self-caring.
Recuperating.
Rejuvenating.
And most of all — in all honesty — … I’ll admit I personally learned what a pangolin actually was.
(… Basically, the love child of a badger and a pair of vintage brown leather penny loafers from the 1970's).
(Stop pretending — everywhere on Earth, we ALL Googled that thing up upon hearing the news of a pangolin-induced virus. And we ALL went “Wow. How’s that thing made it so far?”).
