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Letter: These days

I really don’t think about it.

These days I feel like I’m in the middle of the band, Chicago’s, big hit … “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” Does anybody really care?

These days, except when I might feel hunger coming on and figure that it’s time for a meal — I have no clue what time it is. And I don’t really care. I mean I care, but it really doesn’t matter.

These days, like everyone else, I’m quarantined at home — out of choice. A specific virus, whose name I refuse to even say (I’m so tired of hearing about it) has kept the entire world — even my bucket list — at a distance. And let’s not even talk about my family. Hopefully, they’ll recognize me when I emerge.

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These days I wash floors, do laundry, vacuum, change sheets, cook, wash my hair, do Pilates Barre on YouTube, walk 5 miles when the weather permits, FaceTime, write and read — which is becoming a problem because I need a new book and am having withdrawal. Forget it. I do not read books on anything electronic. I’m a writer — and I need to hold a book, smell the paper — and let it take me away. The last book I read took me to Australia. The one before that, Amsterdam. That’s the only way to travel these days.

I have actually lost track of the days of the week. I used to have some sort of schedule. Workouts, hike, lunch meetings, interviews, write, catch a movie, grab a dinner, see my kids. It’s all down the tubes now — and I must admit it’s strange getting up in the morning and not having a plan.

And yet, I really don’t think I think about the “thing” — the virus whose name I refuse to utter. Still, I must admit that there are mornings when I awake in a sweat from a dream in which I am lost. OK. These days, most every morning I awake in sweat! Last night I dreamt that I was walking down a ski run when, suddenly, I spot a payphone. And, in my dream — I know I can’t use the phone because of the coronavirus. There! I said it! The “C” word.

Anxious? Not me.

I really don’t think about it.

Brenda Himelfarb

EagleVail


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