My my, these are some strange times.
On the first official day of the COVID-19 outbreak (31 December, 2019), I suspect most Australians were blissfully unaware of the spectacular fuckery that was to come. A lot of us were celebrating the end of a truly shit 2019. My partner and I had been evicted from our house a few weeks before Christmas, I was out of work (riding the last lovely waves of an early-2019 redundancy), a close friend was undergoing treatment for cancer, the (asshole) tenants living in our investment property had decided to move on and worst of all, our dog was ripping the fur from his skin in patches and I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since July.
Needless to say, these were not the best of times. November and December were, to put it mildly, an absolute dog’s breakfast (eaten, regurgitated, and then eaten again).
And so we all swore 2020 was going to be our year.
LOL.
Of course, life as we know it has now changed in many, extraordinary ways. And here we are – in the midst of our own real-life 28 Days Later (currently sans zombies, but who knows?!) – and it really does feel as if things will never be the same. Phrases like “flattening the curve” and “shelter in place” will undoubtedly become Merriam-Webster’s 2020 words of the year.
What a time to be alive.
The First Few Days
I’m not going to put specific dates on ‘the first few days’, mostly because I can’t really remember which days they were. Was it a week ago? A day? Not entirely sure. Let’s just assume that I’m referring to sometime within the last two weeks and go from there.
My most pressing personal issue right now is my hair (besides death & despair of course). Ironic considering hairdressers are yet to be officially shut down and here I am – greying rapidly and shedding endless strands all over the house. This morning Scotty From Marketing reversed his 30 minute hairdressing rule – because clearly that was the right path to take – so I’m free (for at least another 24hrs) to go hang out at the salon with oodles of strangers for an indefinite period of time while my stylist, hairwasher, colourist and blow-dryer all run their poxy, virus-infected fingers through my pretty new locks.
Might just stay home.
The silver lining, of course, is no one is going to be looking at me for weeks, if not months. Apologies to my iso-buddies (my partner and dog) who have to deal with the unsightliness that is my current hair situation, but drastic times y’all. In a moment of panic, I agreed to let my partner trim the dead ends and the way her eyes sparkled when I said yes is now giving me serious pause (thoughts and prayers, please).
Beyond #HairGate, I am managing to keep myself busy and distracted. I’ve realised just how wonderful a housewife I am – like proper Stepford-like. I cook with all the things. I clean all the places. I’m handwashing our clothes because the washing machine decided that now is DEADSET the perfect time to die, so I’m considering buying a hessian apron and frilly bonnet to go with my newly acquired nineteenth-century domestic skills.
My hands are excessively washed and sanitised. So much so that I could probably sandpaper the walls with them. I’m a little concerned that they seem to be an increasingly lighter shade of pale than the rest of my body, but at least I’m not carrying a deadly disease on them. Well, I don’t think I am. A few days ago I leant on a pole outside our regular coffee shop, realised what I was doing and almost shit myself. Now I consult the Interwebs for everything – how long does the intact virus stay on surfaces (Google: cardboard 24hrs, plastic and steel 72hrs), can I contract it by touching supermarket vegetables (Google: unlikely but untested), should I wash said vegetables with soap (Google: um, no).
These are confusing times.
Today: Thursday 26th March
Today, my partner was called into the office, so I woke up in a flood of panic. I gave her some tactical instructions before she left the house in a suit made of garbage bags and duct tape (kidding, but frankly wish I wasn’t). Don’t touch ANY door handles; make sure you pee standing up; wash your hands until they’re mottled and bleeding; drink your coffee and sip soup through your mask only and above all, do NOT go near anyone. Not a single person. Actually… you know what? Don’t even speak to them. Don’t look in their general direction, don’t show them you’re scared, they can smell fear! Don’t give them anything! Ignore ALL those who appear to be humans!
OK wait….that last bit might be zombie apocalypse advice, not pandemic-specific. Sorry.
I’ve started to get lowkey nervous about our lack of toilet paper in the house. A few weeks ago, I was very cocky. Pffffffft, toilet paper! How ridiculous. We have at least ten rolls here! What we really need to ensure is that we have a super stash of feminine hygiene products – because a lack of those would be nothing short of disaster. So now I sit amongst my 438 packs of Carefree Flexia, smug that I won’t bleed everywhere but slightly anxious about the shitting situation. Asking for a friend: do tampons make good butt-plugs???
Anyway, I decided to get proactive about it. We have a stunning number of serviette packets in the house – including bright blue ones, which should prove very interesting when the time comes to use them. So I’ve spent the better part of the morning bingeing Better Things on ABC iview (DO IT, it’s brilliant), unfolding all the paper napkins, cutting them into fours and then pulling the two plies apart. So we now have double the stash. Now that’s ingenuity.
Don’t be fooled though. It’s not all tampon thrones and innovation at our place. I’ve had a little cry today too. I was throwing the ball to the dog at the closest indoor sports centre (our hallway) when I received a text from my Dad. I was supposed to be going with him to help clean my grandmother’s house tomorrow. She’s been in hospital after pacemaker surgery and her unit is in dire need of a good scrubbing. Great – I love being useful! Sadly though, we had to make the decision that in a Rona-world, two sets of hands are not better than one, and we really should limit who is in her apartment. So I cried. Which probably sounds a bit pathetic, but I’m ok with looking a little pitiful during a pandemic. I suspect we’re all a bunch of ugly-crying sad sacks at the moment.
It’s the simplest of things really, isn’t it? The lack of individual freedom, the loss of human touch, the ability to watch the news without another debilitating virus update. I think it’s ok to have a little cry about these things, to feel anxious about where we’re headed. Best thing we can do is band together (er, psychologically), hunker down and get through this woeful shitstorm as best as we can. And in the wise words of the world’s most brilliant scientist, Dr. Ian Malcolm, “life…uh…finds a way.” (If you know, you know).
Now I’m off to wash my hands for the 83rd time today and contemplate if I’m too old for a TikTok account. Look out for more updates on The Rones in a few days.
Lx