A slightly raw, late 2020 stream of thought

[From the archives]

It’s late December 2020, and we are wrapping up a year for the history books. Really. It’s so obvious that this is going into the books that it’s being recorded already (by last summer, a museum in Anacostia was collecting oral histories in real time on the effect of COVID-19 on people’s lives). So, truly, it’s unnecessary for me, of all people, to say anything about that.

And since I’m not a nurse or a doctor or a public health researcher, and since I left an econ PhD program, and since I’m not a mail carrier or grocery clerk or delivery person, I figure: I have no chance of solving this clusterfuck of a year.

(It’s amazing that there’s an end in sight due to these incredibly effective vaccines, but it’s also insane that we’re in the midst of becoming the epicenter even as the most essential of essential workers start getting vaccinated).

So: I can’t solve this. I can’t cure anyone. I don’t have a winning solution to get people to actually start keeping a distance, to hold on for a few more months (because it’s not really “more” for a lot of them, is it?) (but that’s not really the reason, either: I’ve never been good at convincing people of anything).

We as human society have large, real, pressing, numerous, wide-ranging (and -spreading!) problems, more immediate than probably at any point in my life so far, and I don’t know how to solve those.

I can’t solve anything real, so here’s what I’m going to do instead: pretend to solve trivial shit.

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Petty concern of the week: Running out of doable meals 1-2 days too soon.

We try to limit our grocery-going to about once a week, and sometimes even less, because, you know, weekends are busy times, and weekdays someone needs to work sometimes. What inevitably happens each time is that a little too long, a little longer than comfortable, before the next grocery trip arrives, we’re left with… not much. The cucumbers and bell peppers are gone. We have wilting leaves of some sort, perhaps. Maybe two eggs. Sometimes yogurt. One mini container of hummus. Expired tofu (definitely not from the last 10 grocery trips). Frozen vegetables. And lots and lots of canned tomatoes.

We could make rice and beans, because those are in the pantry, and we probably will, at the last minute, for dinner tonight. (Pressure cookers work! Or just used the canned version.) And then we’ll cook too much and eat it tomorrow and get tired of it over the next several days and forget about it as the new groceries invade our kitchen and then throw out whatever’s left just before next week’s grocery trip.

So that’s not good.

And I’ve been thinking: meal planning is just too cumbersome. It makes a lot of sense, I know: getting the exact right number and type of ingredients, and actually using them all up over the course of the week, in order from most perishable to least so nothing goes unnecessarily bad. It sounds genius, in fact. Except that it requires quite a lot of planning and coordination, and I’m not built like that. We have the same breakfast and lunch nearly every weekday. Simple creature, here. A.? He’d probably like more variety, and whenever he deigns to prepare things, we get it. And he’s gotten seriously good at food over time. It used to mainly look pretty. Now, it tastes great, too. (About a decade ago, when we first lived together, he put an entire lemon’s worth of juice into one salad. For two people. For a single meal.)

So anyway: no meal planning for me.

Here’s the solution instead.

(I want to step back for a moment and give you context for this writing: it’s 10pm on Sunday, I’m dead tired, and I just want to write. I’m typing and typing in the hopes that something brilliant occurs to me as a solution to this clearly intractable problem as I go because I clearly haven’t thought this through.)

(Back to the solution.)

(…)

Option 1: Endure heartburn. Eat those canned tomatoes on everything.

Option 2: Fast for a couple of days. At least the water’s still flowing. I’m pretty sure my grandfather fasted a couple days a week, though I’m not sure I ever truly understood why. Maybe I should ask.

(Also, really: “fast?” Fasting is intentional, a planned activity, a ritual. This? Is opportunistic fasting.)

What else could be a solution here? There’s no way it’s possible to go grocery shopping even one day earlier than whenever-the-f-I-feel-like-it, so… here’s the final solution I’m offering:

Option 3: Hibernate.

This actually could also solve COVID, if I do deign to pat myself on the back. Think about it: everyone’s sleeping. Those unfortunately ill folks get to heal (my world: I choose). Everyone’s metabolism slows way the hell down so we can eat less and don’t need to work quite so much (… while we sleep?) and it’s okay to shut down the economy. Available ICU beds because everyone’s getting some intentional, alive-and-well shut-eye, and keeping a distance, because you might be able to have dinner with a lot of people, but unless you’re all snoring in the same room you’re probably safe at night. Extended night time of the soul.

(Am I really saving this text file?)

[Added in the present:] And between COVID and long nighttimes, I’m thinking about mortality, so I just want to make sure to tell you, from the depths of the hollow organ in charge of my circulatory system, I appreciate you being here. Thank you for being in my life and for letting me into yours.

Love,

O