The Virus – Part Three

A Story About the Continued Comedic Aspects of Living Through a Pandemic

Check Out the Audio Version Here

As time travelers peruse reviews of years past to determine their travel destination, 2020 will likely stand out as a year to stay far away from. Google reviewer “Covidisaloser19” has already locked in his review: “living through 2020 can be compared to joyfully biting into your favourite type of cookie, after a long, hard day. As your teeth sink into the middle of the deliciously sweet dough, you realize that it has a spicy mustard, ketchup, and relish filling. To make matters worse, the person that made you the cookie was the person you (used to) trust most in the world.” Though that review is a tough act to follow, I’ll attempt to keep future time travelers safely away from 2020 with a more thorough review of the year in, “The Virus – Part Three”.  

My hands were sweaty as I worked to squeeze the final drop of toothpaste out of the tube. I knew very well what an empty tube of toothpaste would mean – a trip to the drug store.  I had been putting the mission off for as long as humanly possible, and had even considered homemade toothpaste recipes to buy myself some time until a COVID vaccine was found, but as I was out of baking soda and motivation my efforts proved futile. I knew it was time to start the journey.

I put on my sportiest sneakers, zipped up my track coat, and took a final look at myself in the front hall mirror.

“Why do I look so naked?” I wondered out loud. “Ah, a mask. Of course.”

I grabbed one from my “front hall” stash, and put it on. I was taking public transport that day (on which masks were mandatory), so there was no sense in playing the mask on, mask off game.

As I walked to the bus stop, I passed several other people also trying to make their way through the pandemic. Most folks were wearing masks, and I found it remarkable how many different styles there were. I saw masks that were obviously made by the finest silk worms in all the land, as the sunlight elegantly bounced off the material, almost blinding me; ones with colourful patterns that danced across the wearers’ mouths and noses; and ones that were all business, a simple black or grey, likely headed into the city’s downtown core to make some money.

As I waited at the bus stop minding my own business, a respectful 2 metres from other citizens awaiting the arrival of the rectangular box on wheels, I felt the familiar sensation of a sneeze coming on, and tried to negotiate with my body to change its course.

“I have done so many good things for you, lately,” I pleaded with myself. “I drank 2 glasses of water yesterday, ate at least three quarters of an apple the day before, and actually got the recommended number of REM sleep cycles last night per my Fitbit.  Please, reconsider your plans.”

Unfortunately, the sneeze showed no regard for my diplomatic request, and exited from my mouth with a complete lack of grace or dignity. I thought about quickly removing my mask and sneezing into my elbow; however, I didn’t want to end up in COVID-19 jail, and instead opted to play it safe and left my mask on.

 I let out an audible sigh that was prompted by the reality of having to live with a sneeze-juice covered mask for the rest of my journey. I tried to stay positive by reminding myself that I had just protected the people around me from my potentially virus-infected particles, and made a mental note to make myself another “Great COVID-19 Citizen” medal when I got home. I typically used a round cracker for the medal, and string cheese for the necklace portion, so it served as a tasty snack post medal ceremony.

As I got on the bus, I looked for a seat that was the appropriate 2 metres away from anyone else. Not unexpectedly, it appeared that I was out of luck, and would have to stand. I settled on a spot where I felt I could avoid breathing on anyone, or have anyone breath on me. I considered asking the driver if he minded driving with the doors open to get a little extra airflow, but felt that might be overstepping my authority.

As I exited the bus, I was immediately surrounded by line-ups. They were at minimum outside of every second store, full of masked citizens waiting to carry out their shopping needs. The lineup participants displayed a variety of emotions: some were evidently impatient, tapping their toes against the concrete, while others seemed to be soaking in the opportunity to be amongst the largest number of human beings they had been in a while, evident by the discussions going on between complete strangers, and the joy radiating from their eyes.

I arrived at the drug store, and was relieved to see that the line-up wasn’t quite as long as the ones I had walked by. I took my place in line, and immediately pulled out my phone to pass the time. Though I had been doing my best to avoid diving into every news article ever written about COVID (as I had certainly been doing at the beginning of the pandemic), I couldn’t avoid the huge news notification at the top of my screen about a particular COVID-19 vaccine trial being delayed due to illness in one of the participants. My stomach sank, as my mental health had been banking on a vaccine arriving within the next week.

“Why don’t they just ask for my help!?!?” I wondered. 

On the positive side of things, the distraction of the vaccine news had carried me all the way to the front of the line to the mandatory temperature check.

The employee who was holding quite an official looking thermometer explained, “Mam, I’m going to need to take your temperature”.

“Check away!” I replied, while awkwardly bending down to adjust for the height differential between myself and the Temperature Manager.

“Hmm…,” she said to herself while examining the reading on the thermometer.

“Is something wrong?!” I began to panic. I was sure I was healthy; there was just no way I was anything but. “Could the thermometer be possessed?!?” I thought.

She turned her back to me and began a hushed discussion with her co-worker.

I attempted to remain calm, but all that resulted from my efforts were flashing images of a raging global pandemic and a crumbling world economy.

“Sorry. The reading just displayed as ‘error’, and I didn’t know what that meant. Let me try again,” the employee said.

I held my breath for good luck. I wasn’t really sure if that was a thing, but I felt that it probably couldn’t hurt at that point.

“Ah, 36.3 degrees. You’re good to go.”

As I entered the store, I was bombarded with a multitude of signage. Various directional arrows and a wide variety of messages (e.g., do not enter, one-way only, masks absolutely required) hit me at every angle. An employee was busy hanging additional signage from the ceiling and accidentally knocked a sign off the top of her ladder onto my shoulder as I walked by. I thought about sneaking it into my bag as a historical memento, but decided it was best to leave some things as a memory that would eventually fade, and forged ahead on my toothpaste mission.

For some reason, standing in front of the toothpaste display resulted in a profound feeling of having just been granted freedom after being confined indoors for many months. The vast amount of options washed over me, and I found myself in a trance like state pondering about how charcoal toothpaste was really made. As I was in this almost meditative (and frankly, vulnerable) state, another shopper was approaching me at seemingly lightning speed (compounded by the fact that they had ignored the signage and entered the aisle from the wrong side). Thankfully, my reflexes snapped into action, and I grabbed 5 boxes (in hopes of avoiding another journey of the sort in the near future) of the new, stylish charcoal flavoured toothpaste, and tossed a few additional boxes behind me in hopes of ensuring the approaching shopper maintained an appropriate 2-metre distance from me.

A droplet of sweat dripped into my eye as I approached the self-checkout. Though the burning sensation in my eye certainly wasn’t comfortable, I was relieved it hadn’t dripped onto other shoppers.

“You are truly selfless,” I whispered to myself.

I opted for the self-checkout to ensure as few people were exposed to my potentially virus carrying self as possible. I had brought my own bag, so I was required to press some extra buttons on the cash register screen to prevent an alarm, accusing me of stealing my own cloth bag, from sounding. Once I had accurately manipulated the system, I began scanning the toothpaste packages and placing them in the bag, one by one. In all honesty, I found the routine a bit therapeutic. It was nice to have a bit of habit back in my life after months of chaos. I had reached the final box of toothpaste, and hindsight being 20/20, now realize I was likely overconfident. Instead of just placing the box into the bag, I wanted to go above and beyond and attempted to spin the box in my fingers, and then have the box “jump” from my hand into the bag. Evidently, the system did not appreciate the minor time delay between the item being scanned and being placed into the bag, as a large notification appeared on the screen indicating that an attendant had been called. I scanned around for an associate and when I didn’t see one immediately rushing over to arrest me, I attempted to put the box in the bag and reconcile with the cash register. Unfortunately, it appeared the damage had been done, as the notification continued to menacingly blink on the screen, declaring, “I know what you did”.

An associate suddenly appeared behind me, and I quickly jumped out of the way, which I attributed to my COVID-19-experienced reflexes, and a smidge of fear. I started explaining the situation (and very intentionally left out the attempted Cirque de Soleil-type trick), but the employee simply swiped her magical badge and eliminated the problem.  

I knew she couldn’t see my smile through my mask so I tried to compensate by energetically shouting, “thank you!!” as she returned to her regular duties. She didn’t look back to acknowledge me, but I know that’s just because she’s a true professional.

I exited the store with a slight spring in my step knowing a task I had been dreading for weeks was complete, and that I had executed it with the utmost regard for COVID-19 safety protocols. As I got back on the bus, I made the executive decision to make myself a second “Great COVID-19 Citizen Medal”; I was going to be eating well that afternoon!

As soon as I got back home, I went into the bathroom to execute the appropriate sanitizing and mask removing procedures. Of course, my mask was now contaminated so it needed to be lit on fire; I’m just kidding. It actually needed to be placed in an airtight Ziploc bag, then buried at least 60 metres underground for a minimum of 2-weeks, during which time spiritual leaders from at least 3 different religions would need to walk back and forth at least 25 times across the ground under which it was buried. 

After I had completed my cleansing routine, it was time for my Zoom call with my closest group of friends. As I waited to be let into the call from the lobby, I made a mental note to tell them about my discovery of charcoal flavoured toothpaste.

“Hello Paislee!” a chorus of voices sang.

“Hey there, fellow quarantiners!” I replied.

A delightful discussion ensued that included dating in a pandemic, experimental recipes, and of course, uses for charcoal, from cooking to face masks.  

Post-Zoom chat, I felt well enough mentally to check in on the daily COVID case count across the nation. I turned on the TV, and found a channel where I had previously listened to numbers and data being rattled off by the announcers. The discussion that day centered around the rising case numbers, and the fact that more restrictions would need to be put in place immediately, unless we wanted the entire world to perish. I decided I actually wasn’t in the mood to listen to a nightmare being narrated to me, and promptly destroyed my TV.

 After assertively telling 2020 that I wasn’t in the mood for its crap that day, I decided to head out to the mailbox. Flyers advertising the latest blowout sale had become one of my closest friends that year, and I really needed a friend at that particular moment.

As I approached the mailbox, I noticed that the lid appeared to be lifted slightly, and I felt a burst of excitement rush through me with possibility of a larger catalog having been delivered that didn’t quite fit in the mailbox.

As I flipped the lid open, I saw that it was actually an oversized envelope that didn’t quite conform to the mailbox’ standards. I excitedly sat down on the front steps to review the contents. To my surprise, it was a letter, from one of my dearest friends that I hadn’t seen in person for far too long. The handwritten note detailed fond memories of our past, and reflected on future times to come – possibilities that could occur during pandemic and post-pandemic times. Being the beautiful soul she was, she had also artfully woven in words of appreciation for our friendship. I had to pause at one point, and go into the house to grab my swimming goggles so that my joyful tears didn’t destroy the letter.

As I finished the letter, I sighed, but this sigh was full of love and gratefulness. I had recently learned about, “letting yourself feel your feelings”, so I did just that. I sat on the step in my swimming goggles, really noticing how I felt: happy, sad, joyful, angry, grateful, sad, happy. Sitting in my feelings also created a desire to pay the happiness I was feeling forward. My friend had just given me likely my most cherished gift of the year, and I wanted to do the same for someone else. I had recently added dusting the tops of my cupboards to my quarantine to-do list, and that day also decided to add making sure people felt loved and appreciated.

As the sun set on the 1,000,000^th quarantine hour, I lit a candle and sat down to write the first of what I planned to be many, quarantine love letters.