The daily paper tells me that today is Monday. I’m not due to publish this until Thursday. No problem. That’s three more defrosted dinners until the deadline. I may be out of touch with the days of the week, but fortunately, I’m still able to remember what I’ve eaten.
Let me clarify. These are not TV dinner-style frozen meals, but neatly wrapped little packages of whatever was available in the meat case the last time I went food shopping, which now seems like a year ago. Even in these challenging times, we are trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle, with a balance of protein, vegetables, and Cheerios.
I’m still cooking a lot, and practicing avoidance techniques when it comes to exercising. But there have been some small changes since my last entry. For one thing, I’m no longer talking to my shorts. Instead, I’m talking to my shoes. Not the worn-out Skechers in which I clop around the house. Nor the practical sneakers that I lace up when walking Sam the Dog. No, those get plenty of attention.
I’m referring to the chic, impractical now-neglected shoes that sit on the shelf gathering dust. You know the shoes I mean. The strappy ones with heels greater than an inch that are only good for following the restaurant host to a table and immediately sitting. I offer apologies for the disuse, and tell them it’s not my fault. Perhaps I should consider wearing a pair each night as we dine on the evening’s defrosted special?
And speaking of Sam the Dog, I do believe this social distancing thing is taking a toll on him, as well. He seems really sad lately. I think I know why. But how do you make a dog understand that he can’t engage in a decent butt-sniff because I must maintain a six-foot space between me and that other dog’s owner? I’ve tried, but I might as well be talking to my shoes.
I figured with all this new found time, I might try something new. You know, move out of the old comfort zone. So I decided to take my writing in a different direction – poetry. Hey, why not? I know a lot of rhyming words. I did take a stab at it, which I will modestly share with you now. It very much expresses the agony of today.
There once were two lovers from Florida
Who felt things could not get much horrider
When you’re six feet apart
It tears at the heart
You can’t f**k from two ends of the corridor.
I hope my use of language did not offend. I know I took liberties; “horrider” isn’t really a word.
I’m pleased to say that my color-coded food storage container idea has been working out very well. So, too, my alphabetized spice jars, and books organized according to number of pages. For my next project, I think I might arrange the groceries in the pantry according to size. I’m sure this will serve no useful function, but it might be more aesthetically pleasing than seeing a squat can of tuna abutting a large box of cereal. I’ll let you know.
The other day I downloaded instructions for making a face mask out of a T shirt. I haven’t tried it yet, but it’s next on the list after the pantry. I might have to sacrifice my Willie Nelson for President garment, but hey, it’s for a good cause. I’ll let you know how that goes, too.
That’s it for now, diary. The anticipation of all this activity is exhausting. I need a nap.