Call Me Larry

I was working on a cute, fluffy little post about our new cat, Lila, who hates me and hisses or growls every time I walk into my own bedroom. Which, apparently, is now her bedroom because I believe it is entirely possible that she might just be planning to murder me in my sleep.

But … suddenly “cute” and “fluffy” aren’t really the mood I feel like hitting today.

There are so many discussions out there about Coronavirus, and I have no interest in talking about any political angles. It’s here, it’s scary, and it sucks. Period.

I want to believe that the media is blowing everything up for the sake of ratings. I want to believe that we’re all going to look back at this and roll our eyes at the overreactions. I want to listen to a bunch of people grumble in July that there was no need to cancel basketball games or close schools or whatever.

I want it to all be a tempest in a teapot. A mountain out of a molehill. Much ado about nothing.

But I also want the people I love to be safe.

I’ve got a nephew stuck in Europe. A high-risk family member showing symptoms. A friend in Washington whose entire family is sick and afraid.

I’m scared.

On Thursday, Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer announced that all schools in my state will  be closed for at least the next three weeks beginning on Monday, March 16. My son didn’t go to school on Friday (no, I’m not that mom; he was vomiting from something un-Coronavirus related) but I went to my job as a cafeteria monitor in the middle school/high school cafeteria.

I looked around at all of those faces, and damn if it wasn’t hard to keep smiling.

Years ago, my older children were in a minor accident on the school bus, and they came home mocking their bus driver, Larry. “He just acted like it was nothing!” my daughter seethed. “Larry’s an idiot,” my oldest son agreed; “he didn’t care that we could have all been killed!”

As an adult, I understood that poor Larry was probably in dire need of a change of underwear when he got home. But he was smart enough to know that he needed to act calm in order to keep the kids calm, no matter how rattled he may have been. So he acted as though crashing a bus full of children was no big deal. Not scary at all, right?

I think I may have channeled Larry a wee bit yesterday. Some of the kids were rejoicing over their unexpected “vacation” while others griped about it as nothing but an overreaction by the governor. Still others were obviously terrified, wanting to talk about it. And as one of the adults in the situation, I had to be Larry 2.0.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I kept saying when asked. “Just a precaution. Just stay close to home and wash your hands a lot, and you’ll be fine. No big deal. Media is just blowing everything out of proportion.”

And that’s …. probably true.

Probably.

Possibly?

I couldn’t help it, though. I kept looking at those faces and wondering if some of them won’t be returning to school when (if?) this all blows over. Supposedly,  very few young people are being affected by this. They’ll all probably be just fine.

Probably.

But how many of them might lose a parent or a grandparent or other loved one? How many have families that are going to struggle in the economic disaster that’s hitting right now because of all of this? How many are quietly terrified every time they feel the need to sniffle or cough? One way or another, lives are going to be changed in the coming months.

I think about all the times I’ve said “it’s a different world now from the one I grew up in.” Yeah, I know you want to shout “OK, BOOMER” at me. But it’s true. The world is different. And it’s true for all of us at this moment. Whether you believe Coronavirus is an over-exaggerated common cold and we’re all idiots, or you believe it’s the end of the world as we know it, you have to agree that this is a pivotal moment in history.

Whether it’s pivoting more around out-of-control illness or a media-manufactured panic remains to be seen. But in terms of economic crises, loss of trust in our government officials, and just plain old worry, we are currently in the midst of a unique moment in history.

Damn it, I’m scared. I’m scared for my kids and my sisters and my nieces and nephews and my friends. And yeah, I’m scared for “my” kids in the lunchroom, even though they all have their own families and really don’t need to have some random lunchlady worrying about them.

I promise, I’ll be back with “cute” and “fluffy” soon. Probably tomorrow. At times like this, sometimes the only way to calm down is to escape into books or hobbies, and I’ll do my best to keep creating fun stories to help folks escape. Because that’s all I can do to help: create some lighthearted escapism, worry a lot, and maybe do some baking to work off some stress.

(Note: I won’t be baking. That was a test to see if my kids read my blog.)

Please, folks, be careful. Wash your hands, stay home if possible, and make sure to say “I Love You” as much as possible. Stay positive if you can.

And call me Larry, I guess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ready or Not

Not too long ago, my daughter told me that some of her friends were wondering if I am going to start dating now that I am getting a divorce.

Just so we’re all clear on this, I think we all know that none of her friends care whether or not I ever go on another date.  I assured her – and her “friends’ – that yes, I will probably date again someday, but that I’m not ready yet.  How, she wondered, will I know when I’m ready?

“I’ll just know,” I told her.

I’ve talked about it a few times since then.  Thought about it.  Joked about it, although I was only half-joking when I asked my friends if they thought there might be an online dating service for short, overweight, partially handicapped people in their forties.  Pretty specific, I know, but I’ve seen commercials for some other specific dating sites:  Christian Mingle, Farmers, etc.

I’ll know when I’m ready.

I’ve flirted a little bit.  Flirting is fun.  And harmless.  Well, mostly harmless.  I’ve had a lot of fantasies about Randolph Mantooth, Josh Hartnett and Eric Allan Kramer.  Quite the variety, I know; I’m keeping my options open.

I’ll know when I’m ready.

“You need a man who reads as much as you do,” said my daughter, the matchmaker.  “Who’s into science fiction and comic books and anime and Dr. Who and Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy.  “

Honey, I’ll never meet men like that.  They are all living in their parents’ basements.

However, I think I was propositioned recently.  I don’t know.  It might have been flirting, but it might have been a definite offer.  He’s an old and dear friend from long ago, and his, er, offer is definitely appealing.  I asked a friend what she thought he meant, and instead of answering she asked me a question.

“Is he, you know, worth shaving?”  My friends are pretty blunt.  They have to be; I don’t do well with subtlety.

“He’s worth more than shaving,” I sighed.  “He’s worth waxing.”

She advised me to go for it, and promptly hurried home to attack her husband.  I wasn’t sure if I should be worried for him, or if he owed me a big thank you for planting ideas in her head.

And then I had a panic attack.  A heart pounding, lungs squeezing, hands trembling panic attack.  And not just at the thought of potential nudity in my near future – although my nudity would have been a frightening thing, his nudity would surely be like a work of art. A thing of beauty.  And when  I go into panic mode at the thought of seeing nude and beautiful . . . things, I need to face the truth.

I am not ready.

Some women are able to have a quick, meaningless fling to celebrate being single.  I wish I could; I rather like the idea of a few commitment-free encounters to help ease me back into the dating world, but that’s just not who I am.  I was an old-fashioned girl before I got married, and I’m an old-fashioned woman now that I’m divorced.  Like the song says, I’m “sadder but wiser.”  And still old-fashioned.

So I played dumb and pretended not to question any kind of possible subtext under my friend’s message.  If he meant nothing, we are good.  If he was just teasing, we are still good.  If he actually meant anything more than that, I hope he understood that my stupidity was masking my terror.

I want to fall in love again.  I want to feel beautiful and desirable and cherished.  I want to kiss someone until my lips feel bruised, and I want to drift off to sleep in someone’s arms again.  I want to hold hands in public and kiss goodbye before work in the morning, and I want to mean it when I say, “I love you.”  I want him to mean it when he says it back.

But I’m not ready.  I’m too afraid.

I’ll know when I’m ready.  I don’t know how I’ll know, but I’ll know.