Ammi Midstokke: When does the (motivation) stimulus arrive?
We are weeks into this situation, and I haven’t even learned a new language yet.
Nor have I picked up my banjo (much to the delight of my family), checked off my spring to-do list or aspired to fashion beyond the bath robe. Incidentally, that may be the name of my new isolation clothing line, in which the pockets are lined with phone chargers and canned cheese dispensers.
Like most of the world, I waffle between manic ambition and neuroses. One minute I’ll be trotting along on a soft soil trail, winding my way between the cedars, thinking life is pretty normal, and the next I’ll be freaking out because someone pet my dog and now I better disinfect her before she comes back in the house.
The waft of sanitizer has replaced the scent of shampoo. Also, a neglect of personal hygiene is how I keep my space bubble in a full house. My daily green juice habit – or the one I was going to start a few weeks ago – is now just a sticky note on the counter that says, “EAT A VEGETABLE.”
“Does guacamole count?” Beverly asks.
“If you dipped corn chips in it, maybe,” I reason.
Though we all know that reason has long left the building. In my alternate isolation universe, popsicles are health food because they are high in water content. Scrabble apps count as home schooling. So does cake baking.
“Baking is just chemistry,” I tell my child as I melt two bars of white chocolate in a pan.
What I don’t tell her is that I woke up at 2 a.m. and devoured half a bar, then decided I needed to destroy the evidence, got up early to finish it off, and drove to town to get a replacement before she would notice.
During food ration times, children are suddenly acutely aware of what is available in the house.
“Why are there only four marshmallows left, mom?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how many we had.”
“Well, I counted them. There are only two people in the house, and I didn’t have any.”
If only she would apply herself to her math homework this way.
You know the situation is dire when you start stress-eating jumbo marshmallows. I can’t think of a food more analogous to the current state of affairs at my house. It is a food that essentially says, “Why even bother?” It’s also the slogan for my new fashion line.
I know that I will emerge from this, just as the nation will, with some kind of resilience. It might not be as graceful as I had hoped when I originally envisioned myself appearing in public once more with a glowing halo of calm serenity, a Buddha-like compassion for the tiniest creatures, and a mastery of Danish and the banjo. Also, my laundry would be caught up.
No, I suspect most of us will crawl out of our homes, belt robes trailing behind us in the dirt, an orange ring of Doritos around our mouths. Like tired soldiers returning from battle, pale and glossy-eyed from too much Netflix, we’ll have developed new limps from armchair atrophy and will navigate the house with a Costco tub of salted cashews under one arm.
While we might feel alone and be alone, trust me, we’re not alone. And until we can line up heel-to-toe for lattes, commiserating about our 9-to-5 jobs and traffic, we need to have some measure of self-compassion and acceptance.
It’s the only way some of us can hold it together. If that doesn’t work, marshmallows seem to make a suitable adhesive as well.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com