Nikki Stern

Quarantine is on my mind. How could it not be? Our current pandemic has upended our lives. We are dealing with a novel virus, novel as in singular, out of the ordinary, unexpected. Rumors abound, along with advice, opinion, social distancing, businesses closing, new businesses arising (puzzle and mask-makers are thriving). Some of our government leaders, particularly at the local level, are rising to the occasion. Others, particularly at the highest levels, are most assuredly not.

Never mind. It’s up to us to sort through the junk guidance, junk science, “fake” news and real news others claim is fake so we can get to what we need. Then it’s up to us to figure out how we will cope. There are a range of choices between between sitting on your couch eating crackers or candy and watching bad movies or writing the next great American novel. I speak from experience, by the way, because in the last eight weeks, I’ve done one and attempted the other. I suspect I’ve put on a few pounds, but I finished my latest book, the second in the mystery series featuring Samantha (Sam) Tate, a younger and more intrepid version of me (okay, minus the bourbon and the gun).

Which leaves me between the extremes of utter despair and hyper-activity, or hyper vigilance.

I think of where I strive to be as the “calm center.” I won’t be able to paint my back porch or make five hundred masks to sell for charity. But hey, I fixed a one-size-fits-all mask so it fits me. Never going to take up roller blading, but I am walking three to five miles a day, which gives me a decent enough aerobic workout. I haven’t yet made the podcast I keep threatening to make, but I take an online yoga class most mornings. The fact that a hundred thousand other people have also done that much (or that little) doesn’t bother me. It means that a modicum of success is all that is needed to simulate forward motion.

I have my own coping mechanisms and those are, I’d wager, also shared by many as well. I laugh out loud. I coo over animal videos. I cry. I rage. I indulge in, oh, take your pick: food, wine, exercise, social media. I entertain fantasies about fixing, building, repairing things that I can’t possibly fix, build, or repair. I gripe, I sulk, I dance, I play piano, I shadowbox or kick the wall. Other days, I bounce up, relatively pleased with myself and go about my business. Good news, by the way. There are more of those, although that may owe a lot to improving weather.

Others don’t have such opportunities. Many fret about not working or worry about returning to work. They have bills to pay and mouths to feed. They may be working from home with restless kids who don’t appreciate the virtues of distance learning. I worry with them, for them.

When the virus hit, I was navigating my way through my sorrow over losing my sister. I had travel plans to visit friends. That’s off the table. I occasionally remind myself how much harder things are for the people who can’t plan funerals or say goodbye or save people they thought they could save.

Such comparisons are pointless, even debilitating. Do you find yourself comparing your precautionary measures to those of other people? Are you sure you’re at least six feet and wouldn’t further away be better? How much are you wearing your mask and how effective is it? Is it paper or cloth? Did you add a filter? How many times a day do you wash your hands? How long? I know people who take off their shoes at the door, who leave packages outside overnight, who wipe down everything with Clorox, who wear their masks at home, who suit up head to toe to shop, then strip and their throw clothes in the washing machine when they get home. I know people who won’t leave the house.

I probably know people who do none of those things, although they’re less likely to brag about it.

Mine is not to judge. Or be judged, by the way. People you know—and hardly know at all—have no problem telling you how they feel about your clothes, your hair, your television watching habits and now, your pandemic behavior. You pick up your mail without gloves? You spray this but not that? You let a plumber into your house? You’re going to get your dog groomed? You’re seeing the dentist? Well, yes. Turns out I have a cracked tooth that’s become infected. It hurts. It will need to come out. Thank you, but I don’t want anyone’s opinion on the subject except the dental surgeon who will be removing it as soon as the state gives him permission.

Unless I truly need input, I’m reluctant to share my specific self-care habits with anyone—what I wash down, when I wash up, how I shop, what I decide is safe for me to do. Sure, I might let slip to a close friend that I’m lining up at Trader Joe’s in case she wants me to pick up some chocolate peanut butter cups. That’s going to be about it for the foreseeable future.

Which is how long, exactly? Insert shrug here. We don’t know. That’s a challenge, since no one is in a great mood, despite the brave faces. We’re all restricted, we’re all frustrated. Some have turned their fear into hate, their feelings into crimes. They deliberately flout public health and safety standards. Their entitlement leads them to push for an imagined “freedom” suitable only for a single-occupancy desert island. They threaten us. That infuriates me, truth be told. Their actions are ignorant and selfish. I hate to think I live in a country with such people.

Most people aren’t like that. I want to believe that. Most people are trying to find the middle between resentment and contentment, euphoria and depression, reckless optimism and utter despair. They social distance, stay in touch, check on their neighbors, reach out, help where they can, respect the front line workers. They make mistakes and are subject to anxiety. Mostly, though, they wave and smile and stay at least six feet away.

I’m good with that.