You know, we’re all doing our best, I like to think, except for those who are doing actual harm and being idiots during this pandemic. Most of us are doing our best, right? I’m social distancing, looking out for friends and family who might be lonely, donating to some good causes. I’m also doing the following.
Eating Reese’s peanut butter chips for dessert. Or dinner. For years, I chastised Dearest Son on stealing these chips from the baking cupboard and would tape notes to the bag: “Do not eat these, thief!” or “I know it was you, Declan,” said in my best Michael Corleone accent. Then, however, I discovered the sheer joy of eating them not in a brownie, but just in a bowl. They’re tiny and delicious and I regret nothing. I have apologized to Dearest and thanked him for introducing me to the joys of Reese’s peanut butter chips. “It’s good,” he said, “because they’re too sweet so you don’t eat that many.” I didn’t understand what he meant, but he’s a good kid just the same.
Renewed my vows to ice cream. Sure, my beloved doctor told me I had “hereditary high cholesterol” (thanks a lot, Dad). And sure, I started using fat-free half-and-half (what the hell is in that stuff, anyway?). I also gave up ice cream in what can only be described as an act of heroism. No more. Uh-uh. If I’m going to get COVID and be hospitalized and maybe intubated and possibly die, I want my last meal to be fat-full, thank you very much.
Napping. A lot. After getting ten hours of sleep. Is it self-care? Is it depression? Am I mentally exhausted by global stress? I don’t know. What I do know is I love sleeping. I love napping especially. I take all the throw pillows off the bed, create a fake husband out of the to reflect my body heat back to me, pull the shades, pile on the blankies, call Luther and Huckleberry and leap into bed with a smile on my face and a podcast on my phone. Within minutes, I am asleep. Does this affect my nighttime sleep? Not at all. We all have our gifts, and sleeping is mine.
All pasta, all the time. I don’t like cooking for myself. Sure, I’ll make a cocktail with seven ingredients, muddling herbs, twisting lemon rind like a boss. But cooking bores me. I can, however, boil water. Ten minutes and three ingredients later, dinner is served—linguine with olive oil, pepper and parmesan. My version of mac and cheese.
Did I mention cocktails? The days are long, the sun doesn’t set till after eight, and so I have plenty of time to coat a glass with the smoke of burnt rosemary (I’m serious) and add a few dashes of lavender oil to a gin and tonic. McIrish and I both love to engage in mixology, but let’s face it. I’m better at it than he is. (Suck it up, honey.)
Watch reality TV. Oh, Higgins, you were so superior all those years, saying you didn’t watch The Bachelor or Real Housewives. Who’s addicted to Married at First Sight, though, huh? I am! I love that show! I have shed tears of joy over that show. I have yelled at the TV. I don’t know who I am anymore.
Well, there it is, gang. We’re doing what we can to allay our fears and anxieties. Now go watch something trashy and eat some ice cream. Wear your masks. Wash your hands. Be safe. Be happy.