“You can go swimming,” my mom used to laugh, “but don’t go near the water.”
The saying came back to me the other day when I tried to tackle for the first time the contradictions of pandemic entertaining.
I was inspired by a chill in the air and the realization that the opportunity for outside get-togethers is quickly fleeting.
When I bought and sold a house earlier this summer, I was secretly afraid that come move-in day, I’d fall hard into a bout of pandemic boredom.
No more downsizing and donating and packing. No more parades of workmen here and there. No more sanitizing and schlepping my way from one house to the next.
Little did I know that the real excitement was yet to come, when I attempted to impose myself – only the third owner in 70 years – on a house that seemed none too happy with my arrival and eager to show who was boss.
I’ve always been lost without my calendar. I make a note of bulk pick-up day. I tickler follow-ups in case business e-mail goes unanswered. And count backwards from every due date or arrival time to make sure I can make it.
But till COVID, I was never much for counting forward. Maybe it’s the catastrophizer in me, but even the briefest encounter with a mask-less face, and I scramble to remember today’s date and secretly add the number 14.
As the name of this column suggests, I have a habit of taking an ordinary life event and complicating it.
But I had no idea back in February, on the eve of a pandemic, that I was about to take my specialty to the next level. Long wanting to trim my square footage, I made an offer on a charming vintage Cape Cod.
As someone obsessed with reading organizing books and clearing clutter, I dived right in when the stay-at-home orders hit.
What could be better than unlimited time to finish the job?
As a seasoned catastrophizer, I was stunned when the pandemic caught me unaware.
“How could I have missed this?” I wondered. I’ve tried to make up for it ever since by being ultra-cautious. So cautious that I canceled my hair appointment before the salons were closed.
When COVID-19 struck, along with social distancing and stay-at-home orders, I thought, “No sweat!” I’ll just buy groceries during “senior hours,” early in the morning.
“Don’t do it!” screeched friends, who tried it and said the stores then were jammed.
I rarely remember movie scenes. So it feels remarkable that after some 60 years, I still remember a scene from Stanley Kramer’s film “On The Beach.” With humanity about to succumb to nuclear fallout, the woman of the house is upstairs distracting herself by making the beds.
It occurred to me the other day after watching too much cable news, that the word “binge” is getting a dirty rap.
I admit that binge eating is not good. Or binge drinking. Or yep, even and especially watching nonstop cable news.
There’s a reason 45-gallon storage totes are on sale this time of year. It’s January, and time for the post-holiday sweep.
“I just need some ORDER in my life,” I wail to anyone who will listen. And then set out on some cockeyed plan that will somehow put everything in its place without too much work.