a woman's place is not in the kitchen
I chose a fig.
And then a global pandemic hit.
Wait, let me rephrase that. For two months after graduation, I despaired and debated, weighing out my options, abiding to Sylvia Plath’s metaphor in The Bell Jar. And suddenly, two job interviews plopped into my lap. One of them for a full-time editing position at a medical journal, the other a part-time job that still allowed me to keep my restaurant job. I chose the latter. It’s funny, because prior to finishing college I thought I would take the first thing that was handed to me, out of desperation. But I found myself thinking more practically about employment when I had to decide what I wanted my life to look like a year from now. I silently manifested landing an obscure office job somewhere downtown, and it happened—it just took much longer than I anticipated. For the first time in a while, clarity had been restored in my life. I had a routine again. My potential wasn’t shriveled up anymore, it was ripe. I could see my life unfolding before me—I had the luxury of making the foundation for a plan.
I rode the bus with fellow commuters. One morning, a woman sitting next to me was reading the same copy of The New Yorker that I had tucked away in my bag. For a few hours a day my life was business casual and copy machines and putting lotion on my hands because my skin was dry from handling so much paper. I went to library to kill time waiting for the bus. And then in the evening I returned to my other normal—confirming call-ahead parties, hearing “would you like salt on the rim?” several times throughout the night, and mixing white rice with pork to eat as a late dinner.
And now, my routine has been disrupted, like so many others. My predicament is not special, it is shared. Which I suppose suppresses the underlying loneliness that COVID-19 has caused us, at least temporarily. I mourn my short-lived normalcy, of feeling like a real adult for the first time.
I started writing to recap what’s been happening since my last post on March 8th. And here I am over twelve days later, starting from scratch, because I sounded too happy-go-lucky and naive. Just days before that, I found out I got accepted to the summer writing program I applied to, after waiting two months for a response. Here’s the thing though—I want to be granted permission to have a life outside of current events. I don’t want to think that my life is over, because I feel like it’s only beginning. The whole world has been put on pause, but it makes me realize how a body isn’t just a body. We are all thinking of our physicality in a different, slightly paranoid way—every touch, every hug, every cough or sneeze, accidental bump into a stranger, every kiss—has a morbid consequence. But for my generation, this virus has done just as much damage to our Twitter feeds and minds than it has to our immune systems. It’s like when Cady Heron couldn’t stop talking about Regina George when she was around Janis and Damien. What did she do now?
Last Friday morning, I boarded a nearly vacant bus. I sat near the front while a few other women chatted quietly, asking one other if they were “next” in terms of working from home. One lady exclaimed “I better not! I ain’t staying in my house all day!” We laughed nervously.
Now social media is peppered with updates on the virus (let’s call it The Bitch in Question) and little bits of optimism. Everyone has suddenly discovered how to make lists. And I’m excited for them. While a baby boom has been predicted to happen as a result of self-quarantining, a surge in reading is already happening. My newsfeeds and timelines alike have been full of reading recommendations. In a global crisis, we’re all willing to show one another that we’re merchants of culture. We hate being bored. The excitement and curiosity I had when I first graduated is now everyone else’s reality—how to fill free time, a mass variety of hobbies that can now be picked up that were once mentioned in passing. Now is not the best time to encourage impulse buys, but I did buy more embroidery skeins—I’m determined to learn more outside of the seed stitch.
I finally gave in and bought a percolator so I could make stovetop espresso and lattes at home. When it arrived on Thursday I opened it and got to work, filling the bottom portion with water, packing in the ground coffee, and setting it on the stove. After a few minutes I took it off the stove, and placed it on the counter not realizing I set it on top of a cheap dish towel. The percolator burned a hole through the towel. So I had to spend twenty minutes scraping burnt fabric from the bottom of it for twenty minutes. Cue to me getting so frustrated that I sunk down on the floor in front of my fridge and called my boyfriend, saying in a whiny voice “I JUST WANTED TO MAKE A LATTE AT MY HOUSE!” If there were other moments where I’ve been made acutely aware of my whiteness, they did not humble me as much as this experience. I was immediately reminded of this particular moment in pop culture:
I’m glad Starbucks didn’t hire me.
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I’m fortunate that I still have my office job, but commuting downtown has become all the more daunting. Cleveland has transformed, and I feel guilty for leaving the house. I was called off last Sunday before all restaurants and bars were ordered to close, so half of my monthly income is gone for the time being, like so many others. This weekend feels so weird, not having to be at the restaurant. Hopefully this doesn’t last as long as we think it will.
In the meantime, here are some things you should and shouldn’t do while quarantining:
Don’t: cut your own bangs
Don’t: watch Contagion
Don’t: be an asshole. Be appreciate of those who are still providing transportation and food and care.
Do: spite watch The Bold Type and explain Jane and Ryan’s tumultuous relationship to whomever will listen (I did this to my boyfriend and he was not amused)
Do: get a library card
Do: make a playlist (click here)
Do: think about the Trader Joe’s trip you’re going to make when people stop panic-buying everything
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Here’s hoping we get through this. What the fuck do you even write about during a pandemic? I’ll get back to you when I find out.
Stay safe.
Lots of love,
Grace