Here’s how I know I’m coming close to hitting rock bottom. Yesterday, it was all I could do to convince myself to get dressed. Spending the day in your pajamas is probably something many of you do during this quarantine. After all, what really is the need for anything other than your fleecy bottoms and a shirt that says Don’t Bother Me Until I’ve Had My First Cup of Coffee? Unless you have a Zoom call and then you need to change your shirt.
But every single day of this Shelter-At-Home-to-Infinity-and-Beyond, I have gotten dressed. I carefully choose my pants and a shirt to match. I put on some nice earrings. I even change the band on my Apple Watch to coordinate with my clothing. And then I go and sit in my chair and watch Father Brown solve mysteries in his little crime-filled English village where apparently he doesn’t need to bother with saying Mass or hearing confessions and can spend all his time figuring out who killed Mrs. Westover. I prepare a few meals. Sometime in the neighborhood of 9 o’clock in the evening, I remove these clothes and jewelry, put on my pajamas, and sleep until the next day when I do the same thing.
So see? Rock Bottom. Nevertheless, I managed to convince myself to get dressed. But first I sent a text to my sisters to whine. They both admitted they have their bad days as well, though they both are dressed when I FT them each morning. Bec said she manages her mood by forcing herself to walk each day. Jen admitted that she is having trouble getting herself to cook dinner. Nothing sounds good. Bec needs a companion dog; Jen needs a cook to prepare her meals; I need a ladies’ maid to force me to dress.
Here’s another reason that I know I’m hitting rock bottom: Yesterday, as I was looking around for something to prepare for lunch, nothing looked appealing. I allowed Bill to use the leftover steak for a sandwich. I rooted around the refrigerator to no avail. There was food there, but nothing that appealed to me. Because what I really wanted to eat for lunch was….are you ready for this?….Spaghettios.
Yep. If I wasn’t trying really hard to limit my trips to the grocery store, I would have walked over to Basha’s and bought myself a few cans of Chef Boyardee Spaghettios. But if the crabby neighbors on Next Door are going to complain about people buying nonessential things at Home Depot like flowers, there’s no way I’d be able to convince anyone that Spaghettios are essential.
Frankly, it’s my belief that both flowers and Spaghettios are essential. If I am confined to my house and yard, I need to have flowers to enjoy. I’m not kidding. Having my yard look pretty is critical at this juncture in my life.
Even I’m willing to consider that Spaghettios are not quite as essential as flowers. Still, given that I don’t remember ever craving Spaghettios before, I can’t help but think that my mind and body is telling me that it’s yearning for simpler times. Like when Court was two years old and Spaghettios were his favorite lunch. Or when my mother would heat up a can for my own lunch.
The good old days. Oh oh, Spaghettios.