Hmm. What to talk about this week? The aftermath of the convergence of Friday the 13th with my hormonal fluctuations three days after a full moon? The return of two-thirds of my college kids for spring break that has already necessitated multiple Meijer runs and ear plugs? Bore-ing! But if not the mundane, upon what else could I possibly pontificate?
Should I just acknowledge the morbidly obese elephant in the room and be done? Coronavirus. There, I said it. But part of my self-care plan is to limit exposure to conversations surrounding the pandemic, which in my humble-yet-superior opinion is fueling unnecessary anxiety. I understand and completely support the closing of schools and cancellation of events (though I am suffering from acute March Sadness), but I cannot wrap my head around the ensuing mass hysteria. And I can’t avoid it, either.
To wit, I was at the grocery stocking up on milk and toilet paper – for the aforementioned invasion of my coed-locusts, not for the mandated lockdown of society – when I happened to pass a store employee carrying an empty Charmin box. I’d heard rumors of a TP shortage, so I turned down the aisle to grab a few rolls. Coming from the other direction was a guy also seemingly intent on scoring an eight-pack. There was one left. Ah, hell, no. I sprinted down that aisle like I was in the last few moments of the Olympic 100-meter dash. I actually hurdled a discarded Bounty paper towel bundle. And for what? Some toilet paper? CV doesn’t even cause diarrhea!
No thanks. I’m sticking with the boring hormones and parenting woes. Peace out.
