As is usually the case when I post things, I thought of some other highly entertaining things to talk about right after I clicked “publish” yesterday. Let me grace you with those things.
The first, is that in addition to blabbing on about running marathons, I meant to talk about how my supervisor Skyped me the other day, asked me how I was doing, if I was running. After I answered her questions, she just went, “Some guy ran a marathon yesterday on his 23-foot deck!” I responded, naturally, “WHY?” And she just went, “It took him over six hours!” Well, I’ll be.
Also, lying in bed last night, I thought to myself: one fortunate aspect of seeing no one during this time is that I can weather the pimples that always appear on my face when I return to humidity in NY–without anyone having to bear witness! That is, except for my unlucky family.
Earlier, I finally finished The Book of Joy, basically a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu on how to create real joy in your life. The subject matter was highly relevant, yet I found myself racing through it and being like, “Yeah…joy seems like a tall order right now…”
You know you’re doing this quarantine wrong if you’re not binge-watching something, and I’m definitely doing it wrong. I haven’t watched a single episode of anything and I am honestly ASHAMED. Somebody turn on Netflix for me, I’ve lost the will to even do that.
I saw a friend post the following on Instagram today:
It killed me because when I was a very small child, I would often think to do exactly that: just scream at the top of my lungs for no reason. But I always stopped myself. I don’t know if I’ll stop myself the next time that urge arises.
It’s easy to start getting snippy with your fellow quarantines at this stage. In a measure of total sentimentality, I had picked out some Noosa yogurts at the grocery store, because Noosa is made in Colorado and I miss Colorado and the mountains are calling and I must go and so on and so forth. Well, someone in the house ate my Noosa. And my dad misheard me bitching about it, and from then on, kept calling it “Moosa,” which ironically would make more sense, because, you know, cows make milk which makes yogurt and they moo and all that. But eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and chided, “It’s NOO-sa with an “N.” Not MOO-sa.” I was freaking Hermione Granger, telling him it’s “Levi-OH-sa, not levio-SAH.” What’s going to happen the next time he refers to a prairie dog as a “sand gopher” in front of me?