A QUESTION FOR YOU

In 2019, it was they.

In 2018, justice.

2017: feminism. 2016: surreal. 2015: -ism.

We’re not quite four months into 2020, but does anyone doubt that Merriam-Webster’s word of the year will be coronavirus? Perhaps that’s too on the nose. Maybe they’ll go with isolation or fudge things a little with two words: social distancing. (Look at 2015, people. They picked a suffix. Sacrilege.)

With the only true choice already so obvious, I’d like to move on and ponder what may be the question of the year. My nomination: So how are you holding up? Other queries that might appear on the final ballot might be, How’s the curve looking today?, Who else will Trump try to blame? and Where am I supposed to store all this toilet paper?

But seriously, how are you holding up?

Never mind the ocean views. 

Look at me!

For some, life chugs along, fears of some pesky virus swooping in and making every breath a struggle barely registering. Indeed, I don’t have to look far to see signs of “normal”. On my Monday jog around the seawall, I saw a shirtless twenty-five year old up ahead, holding his phone out in front of him, trying to get the perfect daily (hourly?) shot for his Instagram feed. By the time I passed him, he was leaning against a tree trunk, phone still outstretched, his muscle definition not suffering from gym closures, his facial expression decidedly serious. Taking a selfie takes utmost concentration. I managed not to stumble on account of the temporary distraction and jogged on, coming upon clusters of couples on beach towels at Third Beach, each pairing duly spaced out at least two meters from their neighbors. It took great effort for me to suppress a cough as I took in a breath. (Is there a more alarming sound than a cough these days?) I don’t like encountering any kind of smoke when I’m exercising and I was taking in a heavy dose of marijuana mixed with an even more offensive minted cigar, if there’s actually such a thing. Only after I rounded the corner and cleared the human-generated fog did I realize it was April 20^th, enthusiastically celebrated in Vancouver as 4-20, a chance to publicly toke en masse, the occasion switching from a demonstration to a celebration last year after pot became legal across Canada in October 2018. While important things must clearly (hazily?) go on, the scale has been dramatically reduced.

So there you have it, people. My highly unscientific observations of what remains regular. Selfies and public toking gatherings. I hope that offers you (or someone) reassurance.

But if you’re not concerned with selfies, how your abs change in definition every five minutes or the fact that smoking pot has changed from being an act of defiance to being a mild irritant to middle-aged joggers, I ask again, How are you holding up?

Are you bending the rules? Are you absorbing fumes from toxic permanent markers while making posters to attend a rally—with proper social distancing, of course, contrary photo evidence be damned—demanding that nail salons reopen? Or are you hunkered down at home, waiting for the next Amazon package to arrive so you can restock your cupboard with hand sanitizers and cans of Lysol? Admit it, the lower hinge of the cupboard door came off two days ago from excessive opening and closing.

My boyfriend Daniel—okay, maybe I was just looking for an excuse to type that—is an extrovert and he religiously checks our provincial COVID-19 numbers every day, squinting at the charted data, as if he can blur things enough to see that elusive flattened curve. I don’t have to tune in. He gives me the full report. (Alas, a summary would suffice.) Unlike me, he’s an extrovert. I’ve learned through him that “essential travel” is entirely subjective. While his favorite coffee place temporarily closed up a month ago, Daniel and his coffee mates have found a worthy substitute six blocks away. Every morning he heads there for it’s nine o’clock opening. (Are you finding business hours wonky these days? During any other time, what cafe could possibly survive, opening so late?) Daniel and his friends form a sidewalk circle that expands and contracts over the course of an hour as people come and go, the two meters apart rule always in play. I once made the comment that his daily coffee outing could not be construed as “essential” in the eyes of our provincial coronavirus expert, Dr. Bonnie Henry, a woman Daniel reveres. I felt his side-eye stare digging into me. Those were breaking up words I’d dared to speak. He kept silent.

It’s not just the coffee talk that compels Daniel to get out and immerse himself in public each day. There’s always a food item that he can’t delay having at once. Yesterday it was walnuts. And he can’t resist a daily browse in at least a couple of four drugstores to see what he can add to his collection of disinfectants. (I’m pretty sure his supply has gone beyond just one cupboard. He may soon have turf some of his hoarded supply of dried pasta just to make room.) While I’m a classic procrastinator, Daniel must have or do something the moment it enters his mind. While my list of what’s essential might take up two lines, his fills pages and continues to grow.

Ah, COVID-19, 2020. Crazy times.

And yet, for me, things are still normal or, at the very most, normal with an asterisk. To be sure, I “miss” going to the gym.

As a gay man, I felt I was compelled to say that.

Damn. I must be doing something wrong.

Who isn’t pining to get back into a heavily mirrored space to sweat and grunt in baggy shorts and tees—they’re supposed to be form fitting—as buff guys with the middle name Narcissus restrict their gaze to themselves in the mirror as they do bicep curls with dumbbells that exceed our own body weight? I worry too that I’ll lose my patented glare that I cast on oblivious dudes sitting on benches and machines, scrolling through their phones as I’m waiting to work out some body part. A wrist maybe or surely I can bulk up my elbows. For now, I make do with increasing my runs and bike rides, searching YouTube on off days to follow along to routines that have me doing stretchy things with elastic thingies, breathing in, breathing out, hoping this rubber band play will retain whatever muscle tone I have left.

I won’t get into it again—at least, not in consecutive posts—about how badly I long for a professional haircut. I’m making do, covering my bathroom mirror with a sheet and trying to summon up the gumption to “own it” as I step out on rare public appearances with my big ’do. The sky has not fallen, nor has my hair even brushed up against the lowest cloud.

The hardest change for me is that I can’t sit in a local cafe at seven each morning to begin my writing. My Bodum at home works perfectly fine. I’ve adjusted. Other than that morning start, I’ve worked from home for the past two and a half years. In that time, I’ve learned to bat away (most) urges to waste time reading my Twitter feed and I’ve never ever used cleaning my place as a writing distraction. I’ll spare you the current proof, a pic of my kitchen counter. It’s proof on steroids. In the spirit of stay-at-home recommendations, I’ve reduced the number of times I trek down to my building’s utility room with bags full of recycling and garbage. I’m a filthy slob, but a very compliant one.

Okay, let’s shake off that last couple of sentences. I have to admit that there are parts of this new normal that I quite like. I’ve been practicing a form of social distancing all by myself for most of my life. I’ve mentioned many times that I’m an extreme introvert. Add to that a diagnosis (one of many) of social anxiety. In the past, my anxiety hit most often in grocery stores. Maybe it’s the tall shelving on other side of me in any aisle. Maybe it’s all the food items I forbid myself from having (due to another diagnosis, my recalcitrant eating disorder). Maybe it’s too many people in a confined space, people rushing to fill baskets before the dinner hour chimes. Too often, I’ve found myself shaking, wiping an unwelcome tear from my cheek and fighting an irrational notion that I must immediately fall to the ground and curl up in a ball. I feel eyes on me, people thinking, “What’s with that guy?” Nowadays, I take my place in line outside the store, no one too close in front of me nor behind me. When I get inside the store, there is room to roam. Inevitably, I’ll find myself “stuck” in an aisle, someone gazing too long at ketchup brands. I feel a surge of anxiety—do I wait politely or do I hold my breath and quickly violate social distancing recommendations to pass by them? I feel relief, knowing this isn’t one of my quirky dilemmas but something almost everyone is facing. My god, I am normal in a grocery store! It’s exhilarating. I line up to check out, once again completely at ease with no one piercing my bubble. We all have bubbles now.

I write. I read. I run. I bike. I play with elastic thingies. I keep my Netflix to an hour or less. (No thank you, “Tiger King”.) Life goes on, relatively cough-free. It’s good.

So, really, how are you holding up?