A funny thing has happened on the way to containment comfort: my circadian rhythms are shot. Everything’s different. This page on this blog is different. I’m sleeping at different times; awake when I normally wouldn’t be; and during this day, there’s a stranger in my house.
This partly sunny, Tuesday, March 24, 2020, found me awake, again, at 4:30 a.m. after having been in bed seven hours. Hell, I used to get by on five hours sleep at the height of my career. So, seven is good. I fixed a bowl of cereal, cleaned the litterboxes, and watched “Destination Tokyo” on Turner Classic Movies – a DVR’d classic from last night.
I tried going back to bed at 7 a.m., but there was a woman awake in my bed, working. I stayed under the covers for a couple hours then threw off the sheets and headed downstairs. Outside on the front porch, I stood and listened to the silence. My pajamas were a mess, I haven’t shaved in a couple weeks, and with my mop of hair, I smiled. Someone would think I was recovering from the dreaded illness – or had it.
Now perched at her makeshift office on the dining room table, this strange human apparition was finishing a phone conference while I made coffee. Wait, she’s home. What the hell day is this? I did a couple of crossword puzzles and caught up on all the local papers. Now what?
I can’t turn on NPR like I do every day of the week, because I have a new housemate. I can’t make too much noise because the new housemate is on a conference call. It’s already 10:00 a.m., and I’m outta whack.
There was only one alternative. I cleaned the house, did this woman’s breakfast dishes, made the bed, and hit the shower. I shaved. I dressed. I went back downstairs, and that woman was still there. Times are hard enough with my rhythms messed up, but now the routine as well?
I kissed her and went out to the garage. The temperature is in the high forties, so that’s weird. I wasn’t cold, and the snow is all melted. What month is this? This is Northern Michigan on Lake Michigan. What place is this? I can hear a pin drop – and I live on Mitchell!
Next thing I know, I’m at Meijer’s and Grain Train shopping for some at-risk friends, and then at Auto Zone getting a new battery for their car. My phone rang. That stranger in my house, my wonderful wife, Christine, who’s on the frontlines of health care for six counties, is calling me to remind me the sandwiches I always make to take to my writing studio, are in her car at her office. Working at home didn’t work for her. Why are my PB&J’s in her front seat?
I’m so confused. She was trying to be nice, and since it was 2:30 p.m., she figured I could pick up the sandwiches while I was out replacing our friends’ car battery. Okay. I got ’em on the way home. Back in the house where the sandwiches started, I sat and ate my lunch at 3:00 p.m. Heck, it’s almost cocktail hour.
Finally, in the studio, it’s now 4:15 p.m., and I, for the first time, am somewhere familiar, with familiar things around me, and on my usual schedule – assuming I get this written by 4:30. I wonder how the martini will taste with the lingering PB&J’s in my stomach? Yuck.
These are the times that try men’s souls.
And women’s.
Or am I being too dramatic?