I said we were all going to be okay.
I lied.
I mean, we’re ok, not okay. Still living, breathing, on occasion getting chub rub from walks on the nearby golf course, and not sick, praise the Lord, but we ain’t all right. We’re alright.
Let’s call it a ‘Vid Life Crisis. As in Co-vid.
Similar to a mid life crisis in the fact that we are rethinking every single part of our lives: suffer constant boredom, find ourselves in a few dark moments with a dismal view of the future, inexplainable (ha ha ha ha ha) weight gain, frequent thoughts that we might be losing our minds…but dissimilar in that I’M NOT OLD ENOUGH FOR THESE TYPES OF SHENANIGANS (no, I’m NOT, Mom) and there’s no “might be” for losing our minds.
Mostly my husband. Heh heh. This man that claims to be my husband lying in my bed at night doesn’t look a thing like him. Not only has he garnered new wardrobe staples like fantastic fishing waders he piddles around our dry backyard in (see last post, Quarantina) while whipping around some neonish rubbery string off a stick, he’s amassed quite a mound of hair on his upper lip. It’s a cross between Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck, Pablo Escobar and Borat. Except that this joker ain’t famous. Or really infamous, yet. I’m not kidding. When I awake in the morning to his face, I sort of jump a little–not like a scared jump — more like a take my (morning) breath away sort of sense. Like this is not a nightmare dream that just aroused you from your slumber…this man for real has a skunk’s toupee on his lip. Corona Claus (again, see last post) even delivered mustache wax complete with a plastic guitar pick for application so that he can mold this Sasquatch’s eyebrow perched on his lip into something…attractive. I can’t. I am asking Corona Claus for razors.
His wardrobe now also consists of a few new popover Hawaiian print performance shirts that coordinate with his new hammock he purchased for his birthday. And custom made bumper stickers that say “ALAN EXOTIC.” For you Tiger King fans: I will NOT pierce his eyebrow for him. He’ll have to do that himself.
Now, my Vid Life crisis isn’t composed of new wardrobe pieces, though I wish it were. Instead, it consists of me digging through scores of old pictures, reminiscing about the good old days, thinking how skinny I looked back then when I was 11 months pregnant, how I wish that maternity shirt still fit. (Might be a little tight, just saying.) I’ve also been applying self tanner like it’s my job and when this is all over, one might think I’ve gotten a leg transplant. Irish on the top, Jamaican on the bottom. Like a parfait.
I’ve found the end of Facebook, twice.
I’m also still stalking semi-celebs and STILL have no restraining order, despite all the DM’ing and commenting. (I’m waiting, Leslie Jordan!)
The other day both Sasq and I had to go be around people in a socially distanced way–in two different places. This wasn’t a grocery store kind of thing, but not a party either for all you Judgy McJudgersons. I have to tell y’all. We were acting like we were going on a darn first date! My hubs was all, “Does this match? Does it make me look fat? Do I need more mustache wax?” And I was all rubbing self tanner and putting on makeup and even deodorant for that matter. Asking him things like, “Does this make me look fat don’t answer truthfully? Do my legs look like a chunk of streaky Hershey’s Special Dark? I forgot how to zip up pants, can you help?” Driving to said place I was having even more first-dateish thoughts. Do I have a booger? How’s my breath? (Good thing we have to be six feet away with a mask on.) Think of something funny to say. Where do my hands go? I hope they let me use their bathroom. I hope my self tanner doesn’t transfer on anything nice. Do they have hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes?
UGH!
We are Vid Life Crisising.
We are not okay.
We are just ok.
How about y’all?
P.S. As I’m jusssst about to hit the “publish” button on this, Ol Sasq informed me that he has just ordered a Benton’s aged whole hickory smoked ham leg like David Chang and Sean Brock use. You know, semi-celeb chefs. Guess I got some more stalking to do…
and eating, too.
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