23 days of being stuck inside has started to take its toll. I can just imagine that it will be much longer, too. I’ve always considered myself to be a weird cross between a social butterfly and a hermit, but nothing could have prepared me this.
As a kid, the thought of staying home and playing video games all day was the ultimate dream. Now, I know is only so much you can play before it gets stale. I somehow muster up enough energy to play Animal Crossing every day, and I’m more established in my virtual town, than real life. On the upside, I’ve been able to connect with various family members thanks to Mario Kart online.
I miss Starbucks. I’m saving a good deal of money by not dropping $5 on a drink several times a month, no arguing that. However, writing inspiration strikes more frequently with a latte, a warm molasses cookie, and the sounds of people around you. I frequently visit the North London Indigo with the Starbucks inside, and always end up with several new books, too.
I’ve been feeling incredibly vulnerable. I have followed isolation rules, maybe a bit on the extreme side, but I’d rather overdo things than not. There’s a chance that despite my best efforts, a helper could bring the virus in. I know they will do everything they can not to, but it’s still an unsettling feeling. Similarly, when I have to ask for help with groceries, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m sending a friend out to their doom, just because I needed something.
At a time like this, I know have found out that I have a great many people in my corner, and I am sincerely thankful. However, I have never wished more strongly than now, that I could take care of myself.