Life in the vaxxed lane
Now that I’ve gotten my J&J (pre-pause), I look forward to not sitting home and staring at my image on WebEx calls wondering whether it was the pandemic or WebEx that made me look like Freddy Krueger from “Nightmare on Elm Street.”
Like most people, I desperately want to go back to avoiding personal contact with loved ones. I’m dying to not replace FOMO with FONO because I fear normal more than missing out. Because YOLO!
In other words, I’m somewhat ready to get up, get out and par-tay.
Where to begin? Non-Covid life imposes too many choices.
“Too much choice can lead people to make simple, snap judgments just to avoid the hassle of wading through confusing options,” AARP warns already confused Boomers. “Too many choices can also overwhelm us to the point where we choose nothing at all, and in the worst-case scenarios, may even erode our well-being.”
That makes me ponder how during the Trump Pandemic, when we had no choices, I still made snap judgements (online shopping the latest styles at Crocs.com), did nothing (that I can recall due to Covid brain fog), and irreversibly eroded my well-being (in every shameful way I shan’t discuss).
So naturally I barely can’t wait to celebrate my liberation from the fascist Il Duce Fauci, who’s hanging from his feet on Fox.
I’m anxious to get started on my post-Covid priorities:
1. As soon as we can unmask, I shall resume oral care.
Almost daily at home and also long overdue sessions with my periodontal surgeon.
He’s dying to continue slaughtering my mouth so I can continue robbing my retirement savings to put his grandchildren through private colleges where they’ll major in gender conflict so they can pursue a successful life of gender conflict.
2. I will not pick up my slacks from the dry cleaner where I dropped them off after Christmas 2019.
That’s because nobody will be wearing slacks ever again.
Jeans woven with elastane (aka Spandex or Lycra) to make them comfortable for today’s larger Covid bodies are the new dress for success.
You look like an idiot if you show up for a post-Covid job interview in slacks, jacket and tie when the hiring boss is in full Lululemon. “I think we’re looking for someone more … comfortable,” she/her/hers/they will say.
3. After suspending my bucket list pursuits due to the Covid, post-Covid I shall continue putting them off forever.
I’ll start with not climbing then parasailing off Machu Picchu 400 kilometers to coastal Chincha Alta, at which point not kiteboarding across the South Pacific stopping only to snorkel with the happy dolphins and deadly sharks and stingrays that will playfully cavort with me.
4. I’m going to celebrate my freedom.
Like a Covid- and vax-denying stubborn stupid selfish numbskull who is happy to keep a 100-year pandemic going, kill more people especially the elder and ailing, and stop Joe Biden from ending the pandemic, fully reopening the economy, and making America greater, all because they hate liberals more than Covid.
5. I’m going to party like it’s 1920.
Like in the Roaring Twenties.
I’ll start with channeling J. Alfred Prufrock from 1920s poet T.S. Eliot and wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled, part my hair behind, dare to eat a peach, and walk upon the beach.
Heck, I might even do the fandango, popular in the 1920s, even though I find thunderbolts and lightening very very frightening.
6. Unlike men lacking my iron discipline, I will not compensate for a year without physical touch by Cuomo-ing every woman that swims into my ken.
In fact, I won’t quote Keats at all to make the ladies swoon because then I’ll have to call 9–11 emergency care to come and revive them, after which I’ll have to explain the complex situation on social media as I’m being canceled.
7. I won’t go back to pre-Covid online dating.
You have to actually meet potential mates who invariably will include those who, unlike most people, “love to laugh.”
This red flag warns that when you meet, you damned well better have enough killer stand-up material for your own HBO comedy special, or risk being diagnosed as a clinical narcissist like most men by a non-clinician writer who hates her ex-boyfriend because he broke up with her.
8. I also wish not to do fun relationship things together.
Such as taking salsa dance lessons, having exotic foreign travel adventures to fight off other tourists (see Machu Picchu, above), or strolling weekend morning farmer’s markets for fresh locavore bok choy unless to laugh together about the sad organic produce, vegans and ancient Subarus.
Oh, how I have missed standing in line for three hours among the weird, unwashed and tatted to get in! And then spending another three hours waiting for the band you came to see to come on at 11 pm (on a work night) and play seven songs but not the only one you really came to hear.
Eating out again!
I can’t wait for the surviving Serving Professionals to reward me for my 35 percent tipping to support them through the Covid by making the diners screaming with laughter at the next table to SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!
But apparently it’s not the Serving Professional’s job to manage other diners and make my $250 dining experience tolerable, but then was it really my job to tip $87?
When I look forward to the endless possibilities of a post-Covid normal, Nabokov’s existential insight inspires and energizes me.
“The cradle rocks above an abyss,” he wrote, “and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.”
Just like the existential abyss between FOMO and FONO!
Jeffrey Denny is a Washington writer.