But don’t call 9-1-1, call the Centers for Disease Control
or whomever is responsible for this virus thing. I am officially sick, gladly not with the virus
but of the virus. COVID-19 is openly
stealing from my life. It’s been more
than two months that we have been “sheltering in place”, staying socially distant, wearing masks outside, and the biggest sacrifice yet, staying put.
And it’s not getting better yet. We thought we were “flattening the curve” as
the national news promised, but instead Florida’s infected cases keep going
up and as of this week we have earned the horrid title of being the epicenter
of the disease in the USA. Globally of course, we’re looking at 9
million infected with almost half a million deaths. Not quite the numbers from the 1918 pandemic
that ended up killing 50 million, but when you’re in the middle of it, and in
the epicenter, it may actually feel worse.
This situation has already stolen from us about half of a
year. Twenty-twenty sounded good early
on but as soon as it arrived, it has become a nightmare. I started the year at the ripe age of 62. It’s a great age to retire, to slow down to smell the flowers. But
not 2020, it started with a vengeance.
My father’s passing and my first Father’s Day
without a father. The excitement of researching and
starting the process of getting a residence in La Condesa, Mexico City as a big city hangout to visit a few times a
year. Lining up our ducks to start a life of freedom and enjoyment. And then everything stopped.
Now, I have more time for writing, Uh hu! I have more time to dream
about travel. I have more time to look at maps, while I’m dreaming about
travel. Did I say I missed traveling? What else is there? Don't even want to think about it as I would dig myself even deeper into this COVID canyon. In the meantime, we’ll wait for better times
and do the best I can while we wait for the fog to lift off. I hope it’s soon.
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