The Many Stages of Coronatine
Thoughts From an Only Slightly Overly-Dramatic Person
Restaurants have been closed, work is being completed from home, concerts cancelled, theater cancelled. Move over Gen Z, the master of cancel culture is now apparently the coronavirus, as quite seemingly, everything has been canceled. But a few days ago, it felt prudent to unleash this sanctimonious post on the world bemoaning my impending loneliness. Settling into Corona quarantine life, however, has been quite the journey. And so now, I shall invite you along with me, each stage more anticlimactic than the last.
The “I’ve realized I don’t actually keep any food in my apartment” stage — in which I gave in and made a supermarket run for fear that all the lunatics who are hoarding won’t leave anything for the rest of us... Thus rendering me a hoarder. But not toilet paper. I can still claim some degree of moral superiority if I don’t buy toilet paper.
The “sliding the word, “corona” into as many puns as possible” stage — in which I attempt to quip away the knowledge that I’m going to be trapped in my apartment for the foreseeable future by saying things like “coronapocalypse” and “coronatine.”
The “I’m considering a Contagion rental” stage — in which I decided, what could be so bad about watching a disease that mirrors COVID (with an uncomfortable level of similarity) ravage through a population? $3.99 for an SD rental, the true price gouge from Amazon.
The “did you make it to the grocery store?” stage — in which we all realized that there are no more actual social events to discuss so the next best thing is to see if anyone went to the supermarket. If the answer is yes, shit gets really wild and we discuss which items were completely sold out.
The Chopped stage — in which I realize I bought enough food to keep me going for several not very carefully planned out weeks and now have to find a way to make black beans, hummus, and goldfish go together.
The “my sleep patterns are officially done” stage — in which I joined Beachbody On Demand and committed to letting Autumn Calabrese scream at me through my computer screen so I move enough throughout the day and can pass out at some point prior to 2 AM every morning.
The “over-analyzing scarf lady” stage— in which I wondered about Dr. Deborah Birx at the White House press briefings and her scarves. I like to think she has a “Moira Rose and her wigs” style relationship with them. Like, maybe at home she looked at her expansive collection and thought, “come on Karen, come on Linda, it’s our time to shine!”
The “talking to myself” stage — in which I have a thought so strong that I say it out loud, only to find that I’ve begun to work my way from a few words to a full sentence with frightening regularity.
Luckily, the lead up to working alone from home was worse than it actually is. Sure, I’ve started talking to myself and I let a woman with a name that sounds like a seasonal pasta dish scream at me about drop sets in my kitchen, but that’s fine. I’m just gonna batten down the hatches, figure out a way in which I can make crushed red tomatoes, carrot sticks, and asparagus jive together and continue to pound away at my keyboard.
Although, as Elliot Gould says in Contagion, “Blogging is not writing. It’s just graffiti with punctuation.”
