I’m sitting here, and I want to write about literally everything, but everything I write is coming out whiny.
I feel whiny. I know I should be grateful for about six million things–that the people I know and love are happy and healthy aside from seasonal allergies (pro tip: Coronavirus doesn’t make you sneeze, so if you’re sneezing a bunch, you’re probably in the clear), that Kyle has a job that allows him to work from home, that Sam’s school district decided to cancel for the next two weeks, that we stocked up on toilet paper before things got really crazy, that we’re already shut-ins for the most part so our daily routines haven’t been hugely interrupted.
I know all of that, and for the most part, I am grateful, but I’m also a little whiny. I’m bummed that we didn’t get to spend the twins’ birthday today doing anything remotely fun or different from the usual (we were going to go to the New England Aquarium and then get lunch at Friendly’s, but that’s right out). I’m bummed about the article I read that suggested that this entire lifestyle might be the norm well into the summer. I’m bummed about people politicizing decisions that could save lives, and I’m bummed that it’s even a discussion to be had, and I’m bummed that because I’m bummed about that, people are going to get pissed at me.
I’m bummed for my friend who had to cancel her trip to Disney World this week, and I’m bummed for friends who were about to get some much-needed time away from their family units and are now stuck inside with them for who knows how long. I’m bummed for Kyle, whose company is rolling out some website changes in reaction to the pandemic, so he’s working 12+ hour days to get it all done on time. I’m bummed for Sam, who’s going to be so bored in about three days that we’ll all be tired of it (even with me trying to homeschool him a little bit, it’s going to be an adventure).
I’m bummed that our yard is a mess, so trying to play outside is a kind of difficult thing. I’m bummed that I’ve been sick with various ailments literally since January, and now when I’m finally feeling well enough to maybe have weekends again, maybe start doing things again, the world shuts down.
I miss not having my every other thought interrupted by worry. I’m not worried about myself or my kids getting sick; the kids will be fine, and while I might not do as well, I’m stocked up on both inhalers and albuterol for my nebulizer, so I’m not afraid of that. I’m worried about… mm. About living in the “Factors Leading To” portion of the history book.
Do you know what I mean? When you study history–any sort of history, take your pick–before every Major Big Bad, there’s a section or sections about “Factors Leading To.” Factors Leading To the Fall of Rome. Factors Leading To the Black Plague. Factors Leading To the American/French Revolution. Factors Leading To the Great Depression. And you pick up on patterns like massive inequality and natural disasters of various kinds (the more fiery types tend to be prevalent) and illness is always in there somewhere. And after years of history tests and taking the AP US History exam, you sometimes look at the world around you and think, “…uh oh.”
It’s not this worry that the world is going to end, because whenever it looks like the world is going to end, it always somehow pulls through. It’s more waiting for whatever the factors are leading to. Like you know Something is going to happen, but you don’t know when or what that Something is, and you wish that someone would show up from 100 years from now to be like “oh, I just love this part of history, I wanted to see what things were like right before Something happened.”
And the Something is always hard and lots of people get hurt and die, and yeah, the world is usually better afterwards, but going through the Something and being in the Factors Leading To the Something is exhausting.
(I’ve started keeping a paper journal, too, just in case historians in 2525 or something want a primary source)
Weirdly enough (well. Not weirdly at all, actually), I’ve been taking a lot of comfort in the words of Carrie Fisher, various ones, at different intervals. There’s the classic “stay afraid, but do it anyway,” which is really how I’m getting up in the morning lately. And then there’s the title of this blog entry: “If my life wasn’t funny, it would just be true, and that is unacceptable.”
It’s how I end up coping with things, ultimately: with laughter. If I can’t laugh at something, I know that I’m in a bad place, and while a lot of people have been making frowny faces about everyone having a giggle about the world right now, I respectfully am going to call those people wrong. You have to find the humor in the bizarre bullshit the world throws at you, or you will be miserable and scared and probably not mentally survive.
So with that in mind, and in lieu of me gushing about the twins being two (which they are) and about how wonderful they are (so wonderful), I’m going to throw some Coronavirus memes at you. I hope they make you laugh as much as they’ve made me laugh, and I hope they help you sing while the world is dark.