Social isolation has sort of felt like a break-up – a sensation that, after nearly 20 years with my husband, returns to me like a hazy, rotten memory. “Oh, this,” I think, as I pull myself out of bed, forgetting what day it is, and mash an OREO into my maw. “I remember this. It sucks.”
I haven’t left the house in several days. I was taking walks around my neighborhood, dutifully watching my heart rate go up, lauding myself for being so responsible, even in these strange times, but I stopped. My enthusiasm for my own-well being waned. And besides, staying at home, staring blankly at my TV is good for my own well-being, I’m told. It’s good for everyone’s well-being. So I stopped walking. I was literally going nowhere, anyway – just circling the block until I started to memorize houses, like a conspicuous burglar. I had been occasionally
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