I think I have writer’s block. I can’t think of anything to say.
I mean obviously there’s a lot to say. The world is being stalked by a killer virus and I’m on the scary, vulnerable, “you’re next” list. We have a nincompoop for a president. The West Coast keeps burning. There are zero jobs. Black people continue getting shot for no reason whatsoever. White supremacists are teed up to take to the streets on Election Day.
So there’s a lot to say. But it’s all been such an onslaught that my synapses are blown. I can’t think anymore.
It doesn’t even make sense to brush my teeth.
My routines…those things that keep me grounded… are history.
I don’t know what to wear.
Do I wear exercise clothes when I get up in the morning? In hopes of actually doing something? To appear agile? Or do I grab the jeans I left next to the bed. Throw on a flannel shirt and call it a day? That’s at least a little more realistic. I don’t do anything.
It doesn’t seem right to get dressed up. It’s inappropriate. It’s not a dressed up time.
Case in point. I went to dinner Friday night in jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers and puffy. To a lovely, quaint Italian restaurant. A restaurant you’d normally shower for. We were sitting outside. It was fifty-seven degrees. My friend wore a stylish navy coat, earrings and a cashmere wrap. She said she couldn’t stand sweats anymore. She paid the price. She froze.
Unlike my friend, I haven’t put on earrings since this whole thing began. It just seems wrong. Gilding the lily.
Or makeup. Who can tell with the mask on. A little mascara…maybe. But my bangs are crazy long because I don’t want to go to the hairdresser. So no one sees my eyes anyway.
I do have to say one thing in favor of masks. I look younger. A lot younger. The mask covers the neck waddle thing I’ve started to get. And eliminates any consideration of stuff like Botox. So, vaccine or not, I’m wearing a mask for the foreseeable future. Just makes sense.
Back to my day. The basis for my writer’s block.
My day hangs on the promise of dinner. And Netflix.
It’s not a time to eat healthy. You want something to truly look forward to. A treat you can mentally savor all day. Maybe even cook all day. Ahhhh. The aroma wafting through the house. Like Ina Garten’s chicken soup. Splashed over mini bowtie pasta before serving.
Now that’s a dish you can mentally savor all day.
Arugula and minced radish? Not so much.
And, these times require a TV show to look forward to. Maybe on Netflix. Hulu. A show you can brag about. Share with friends. Your show. You want a series with at least five seasons. A lot of action. Maybe foreign.
I’ve tried them all. British baking shows, shows about drug cartels, subtitled shows, war shows. And now I’m into one about time travel. And sex. A lot of sex.
And that’s how I spend my time.
As you can tell, I’ve really lost myself to the tedium of the everyday. The sameness.
I seem to have put myself on mute.
No wonder I have writer’s block.