It’s not Monday anymore, is it?

 

Y

Yesterday I had every intention of writing a blog but somehow the evening got away from me. But I would have begun by saying that I love Mondays. They always seem like a bright new beginning to me, and I am curious to see what good news they will bring. Mondays are almost always busy email days too, and I sometimes get 200 messages. It’s as though everyone else, like me, discovers that there’s a whole world of work out there to be done. Since I like being busy, following up on things, responding, etc. I am a happy camper.

I have a morning ritual. I start the day with emails, which include some columns I subscribe to—some writerly, some politic, a few about food—and I read those, plus personal emails and click through all those that pretend to be personal. I especially dislike the ones that pose as polls when all they want is your money. These days I get a lot from the Republican National Party asking how I like Biden and Harris—I know exactly what they hope for, but I always say I like them a lot. Then I get some that ask if I’m leaving the Republican party, and when I answer Yes—no need to tell them I can’t leave what I never joined—it flips me right to their fund-raising site, with pictures of trump all over.

Moving on to junk mail—I check it daily, usually 30-some emails, many I can click right through but some I move to my inbox—National Memo, Wake Up to Politics (written by a college sophomore who’s been doing this for ten years and is an impressive, mostly impartial, common-sense voice), and my very favorite, Kitchn, where I mine a treasure trove of recipes.

Then comes the separate email account I keep for writing organizations. Having two accounts is confusing, and sometimes I goof and write to family or a close friend on this account and they write back in alarm to ask if that’s a new address. I don’t respond to every email in this account, naturally, but enough that I keep my voice active. It’s good for me image as a writer and for my ego.

Yesterday it took me until noon to get this far, although in all fairness I admit some new “brush fires” came up, especially dealing with my neighborhood newsletter. But the last thing on my morning list—and really sometimes I am through it by ten—is Facebook. I don’t read new postings until late in the day, but I do check notifications and respond where appropriate. See why I don’t have time for the great American novel?

Tonight, I just meant to throw in a few comments about Monday mornings and move on to quarantine, but I got carried away (as I too often do). Quarantine is much on my mind. A close friend wrote to say she hated to see me spend the rest of my natural-born days in isolation. I responded that I’d hate to cut my natural-born days short by risking infection. And there you have it—those who will risk and those who won’t. I have discovered that the ones who will go on about life as usual are middle-aged (my kids' generation) or my grandchildren’s age. My contemporaries are like me—cautious, quarantining, sheltering in place. We’re too old to risk it—we don’t have as much time to recover, and statistics are not in our favor. Many of us have chronic conditions which would complicate an infection. And perhaps we’re a bit more susceptible, though I have a great deal of confidence in the vaccines. I did contact my doctor, and he advised me to follow the program I am. Which means I don’t see family except glimpses through the window or masked talks across an open patio as long as they attend high-risk events (the stock show).

So when I whine about isolation, bear with me and know that it is my own choice. I’d rather be safe than sorry. Tonight, friend Mary, who has not been any place except the optometrist, came for happy hour. We masked but gave it up in favor of eating and sipping wine. In a few days, my Canadian daughter (the one who was concerned about my natural-born days) will bring me lunch and we’ll eat on the patio. A friend is coming for supper tomorrow, but I know she too has been quarantining. I will continue to pick and choose who I see.

Would I love to have you come whisk me away to Wishbone and Flynt or the new Fitzgerald (in the old Café Aspen spot I loved so much)? You bet! Am I tired of my own cooking? Yeah, that too, a bit. But I’m okay, almost content, and optimistic enough to think this surge will pass, and I can get out again. Thanks for understanding. And I think I speak for a lot of old folks.