Day 2 of the shut down quarantine.

Waking to the sound of kids that won’t be returning to school for another 175 days.

Luckily, mine don’t rise until almost 10am…you can hate me now. I once lived your 5am alarm of their opera version of Nessun Dorma in the highest octave known to man.

Waking in pyjamas that I don’t really need to take off because I’m not working, because its shut down, home time. I’m not gonna see a soul. Not gonna take a selfie. No Facetime. No social media exposure what so ever. And God forbid I need to, I’ll simply throw on one of those ridiculous dog filters from Snapchat and voila.


As I stare at myself in the mirror, in a locked bathroom, I notice my appearance.

I still sport yesterday’s makeup. Yes, I read once that it adds like 7 years to my face if I don’t remove it but that bottle or 2 of wine last night, and by last night I mean 4PM,  convinced me that I was pretty and invincible to any more wrinkles this year and my ass could just go to bed with out bothering to cleanse, tone and moisturize. It lied.

My hair. Will my hairdresser really not take more clients during this poisonous time? Lord knows I haven’t travelled abroad since 1999 when I was 19 and my parents paid for my trip. So yes kids, tell me again your boohoo story how you’re the only ones that don’t go to Hawaii or vacations in the Swiss Alpes of Kimberley or Whitefish. We stay home. We buy cows. We are busy. Anyway, these roots will be cool again, everything becomes cool again. Or I’ll top knot it for eternity or just a good spritz of dry shampoo to mask the grease and look like my hair took a few lines off the back of a toilet in a strip joint.

Deodorant! That’ll help freshen me up. I’m not leaving the house anyway. I’ll grab my cheap perfume from the pile of Bath & Body Works products that I got for Christmas. You know the one. The 67 pack of every know product in the exact same scent. I spritz it in all important locations. More for my own nose then others.

I’m not changing out of this covid-19 attire. What’s the point? 12 more days of quarantine “luxury”  before I’m forced to pick out an outfit that probably won’t fit because I managed to eat all emergency snacks in one sitting. If food runs out, it runs out. I got enough body mass to live off of for at least a month. Noted! Stop eating and be skinny enough to face the masses in T minus 12 days.

What the hell is on my shirt? Jam? Wine? No matter. I still am not changing.

I should moisturize. My hands scream moisture. Days of slapping Dollarstore cupcake scented hand sanitizer has destroyed them. Its almost like I’d continuously been wiping up after a bad night of crazy flavoured vodka shots but not as fun. Ugh. But moisturizing requires undressing. Lubing. Redressing. Possibly having the thought of putting on real clothing instead of this worn in, warm, relaxed ensemble. All of these thoughts drowning to the ongoing noises of the invasion at my door, of mini humans that need to be feed and are fighting and why the hell can’t school stay open? I’d volunteer to bleach. To wash kids hands. This is why I give wine to teachers as gifts. They deserve it.

The virus is ruining my whole image. Forcing its way into total wardrobe domination. No reason to put on my best if no one will see me. Totally saving in the laundry department though. Which I’m sure if it could talk would be wondering why the hell I’m folding it and not leaving it in a wrinkled mess on the couch for 7-10 business days.

I should call my friends. Check in on the neighbors. Lord knows they are probably drinking too. Or crying. Or screaming. Or locked themselves in the bathroom. We all are suffering. I need to call my friends. Console through phone waves. In my ugly combat attire pyjamas. Forced to take on this war challenge of virus versus family. To reconnect with family. Maybe that’s what it’s really about. Family. Bringing us back together. We’ve become too dependent on others to teach our kids everything for too long. We need to be the ones to feed our kids 3 meals. To teach them the basics. Not burying in electronic supernova.  To learn patience. To love. The virus dropped down like a bomb in World War II. Forcing us to return to what really counts. Not hoarding toilet paper. Hoarding common sense and love.

I’ll open the locked door to face this invisible covid -19 enemy, outfitted in the confidence of love, of strength, and in last nights wine covered pyjamas.

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