This isn't the virus you're looking for.

So hot. Sweaty. Can't get enough air into my lungs. Climbing up through sleep knowing one thing is certain: This is it. I have COVID-19. The pit of my stomach fills with panic. I kick one leg out of the blankets, seeking cooler air. The rest of my body feels paralyzed. I have no energy - I'm wading through molasses. I fight to open my eyes. So fucking hot. My chest hurts.

"Prrrrrowl?"

My eyes open.

It's Steve. My cat Steve is on my chest. I'm also having a hot flash. It is NOT COVID-19.

Had I been truly awake I would have employed logic. I have not touched or been within 2 meters of anyone I don't live with for 6 weeks. David is the member of our family who goes out into actual public and whenever he buys groceries/pharmaceuticals he wipes off everything and religiously washes his hands.

But given the current reality you get those random thoughts.

I have a fever. Is it COVID-19?
Are you a woman in menopause? Is this a hot flash? It's NOT COVID-19.

I have shortness of breath. Is it COVID-19?
Do you have a cat on your chest? It's NOT COVID-19.

I have a dry cough. Is it COVID-19?
After you stop cleaning your house fanatically, does the cough stop? It's NOT COVID-19.

I'm achy. My joints are in pain. Is it COVID-19?
Have you been exercising more than you ever have in your entire life? It's NOT COVID-19.

I have a sore throat. It hurts when I swallow. Is it COVID-19?
Have you had any water today? Drink some water. Does it feel better? It's NOT COVID-19.

My head hurts. I have a blinding headache. Is it COVID-19?
Did you drink too much wine/whisky/scotch/vodka/tequila last night? It's NOT COVID-19.

***

As an empath, my low-grade-dealing-with-a-pandemic anxiety shifts into high gear when I'm stupid enough to read the news before bed.

"Ma? Ma - what is it?" asks Rissa as I flop down on her bed one night in tears.

"So many people are dying. Hundreds of thousands of people are dying. Nurses and doctors and respiratory therapists and PSWs who are trying to HELP the ones who are dying are dying..."

"Okay, no more news for you. Dude."

***

Nursing students have been asked to take the strain off other medical workers. Rissa now works as a PSW at a Long-Term Care facility for the summer, where, I am thankful, there have been no cases (touch wood).

"Ma? Ma what is it?"

"It's just all the people who live there. They can't socialize. They can't see their families... They can't... hug."

"Oh Ma... Stop. You can't think about it. Yes, it's sad, but you can't think about it."

"But..."

"No buts. You have too much empathy. Think of it this way. Most people, they get a regular amount of empathy flowing through their bodies. You... you got... 6 times that. You empathize with an ant when you kill it. It makes you a good actor, but it's going to make you crazy."

"Er."

"Pardon?"

"Crazi-ER."

"Yeah. That too."

***

So now? Now I don't delve, I don't check stats all the time, I try not to empathize. I... breathe. I place my feet flat on the floor to ground myself. I strike the Superhero pose just like I learned from Grey's Anatomy.  And I thank every deity out there for all the Front-Line workers who  are putting themselves at risk every single day to help us get through all of this.

THANK YOU.

TUNA! TUNA! TUNA!!

"Are you ready for lunch?" asks Rissa.

"Lunch Time!!" I reply "♩♫ It's Lu-u-u-unch... TI-I-I-IIIIIME!!♬♫ "

"O... kay..." says Rissa, eyebrows dropping in resignation. "What were you planning on for lunch?"

"I dunno. Grilled cheese??"

"Or... tuna melts?"

"TUNA?!?" This is the best idea Rissa's ever had in her entire life. "TUNA! TUNA! TUNA!!!!"  I make my way over to the pantry. "♩♫ We're ha-ving Tuuuuuuu-naaaaaa♬♫ "

"What is happening?" asks Rissa.

"Tuna, tuna, tuna!!!" I grab a couple of cans and dance my way over the counter.
"♩♫ Tuuuuuuuuu-Naaaaaaaaa!!!! ♬♫ "  I pause to take a breath. "That was exciting."

"You are literally the only person who made that exciting," says Rissa. "I am just standing here."

"Yes but you thought of the "♩♫ Tu-na Me-e-e-elllllllts!!!! ♬♫ "

"You're so weird."

"I prefer to think of it as manic without the depressive."

"I gotta say that's mostly accurate," contributes David.

#copinginquarantine

TASSEL TWIRLING 101

Remember your first bra?  That verging on A cup, training bra?   This clothing item had two purposes: to mask breast buds and to serve as a horizontal bulls-eye for the boys in grade 5 who seemed to make it their life's work to SNAP the back of that sucker as soon as they glimpsed it underneath your shirt.  Those bras didn't have any padding, so God help you if it was cold and your nipples stood to attention, because everyone would notice them. Boys. Girls.  Teachers. The Custodian. EVERYONE. Or so you thought.

My barely there pre-pubescent breasts sqwooshed into that fabric at the age of ten - already pushing things down,  smoothing  them out. One hook at the back.  Earning my Brownie badge in "Brassiere Closure."

Shopping for that first training bra at The Met in 1978. And when I say "The Met" - I mean The Met department store at the Greenwood Mall in the heart of the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia... Canada.

You move beyond the B cup and you're up to at least two hooks.  By the time you sport those D cups, you'd better hope that you have at least three hooks or there could be a situation.

As I take the bras from their 'delicates' bags to move them to the drying rack - because, let's face it, if you're paying $50 or more for something that reliably lifts and separates your girls, you DO NOT put those fuckers in the dryer - I look at my bra and I look at Rissa's.  Rissa's with its 1" band and two dainty, nay elegant, hooks.  Mine, with the almost 4" band and 4 Industrial/Frankenstein hooks to corral my beauteous pulchritude into its massive cups that (cool fact!) could also serve as hats/medical masks if need be.

Along with the rest of the breast-blessed world who are"sheltering at home," I have mostly been eschewing the brassiere, letting the girls go free range. This lack of underpinning is indeed comfortable - as long as I move sedately. Coming down the stairs in the morning, I find myself riveted by the clapping sway of Itsy & Bitsy, wondering how I can reliably replicate the motion, for NOW is obviously the time to invest in pasties with proper tassels and get on that middle-aged burlesque career track.

Jo Weldon teaches nipple tassel twirling - Northside Media Inc.

"Am I doing it?" I ask, bouncing up and down.

"Please don't make me watch you practice this," says Rissa before subsequently yelling, "Pear! Pear! Ma is shaking her breasts at me!"

"She's doing what with her breasts?"

"I'm learning how to twirl tassels!!!"

David comes into the room. "You're what?"

"I'm learning, " I say as I continue to bounce, "To twirl tassels!"

"Un-huh..."

"How's it looking?"

"Well, there is definitely A LOT going on there."

"What if I try the shimmy method?"

"I'm going to the other room to read," says Rissa.

Because a cat's the only cat who knows where it's at.

"Hey there Handsome," says Rissa.

"Well, HE-LLO!" I reply, modulating my voice to a lower, much sexier, register.

"I am not talking to you," she says. "I am talking to Steve, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Because he is the handsomest being in this house," she continues.

"Yes. Yes he is."

"Did I just lose a beauty pageant to a cat?" queries David from the living room.

"You did. Sorry love."

"I am offended."

"You don't have to be. Few can compete with Steve's perfection."

Grumble, grumble, grumble... from the living room.

"If it's any consolation, your tummy is much more attractive than his, since he started licking it bald."

"I'm not sure it is."

DON'T STEP ON THE TEETH!!

"Uh-oh," I say as I'm about to step into my bedroom.

"What?" asks Rissa.

"Hold these," I say, pushing freshly washed sheets into her arms. (Sidebar: have I mentioned that I have a kid who never complains when I ask her to be my Plus One in household chores? She's a fucking unicorn.)

"Why?" She looks around suspiciously.

"I had a little ceramic box on my dresser that holds pins and baby teeth. The cats must have knocked it off. Everything's on the carpet now."

"You have a box that... You...?" She shoots a horrified glance to the floor.

"Just don't step on the carpet. I don't want you to step on a pin."

"Or a BABY TOOTH?!?"

"Or a baby tooth," I say as I start to gather up the debris.

"You kept my baby teeth?"

"Uh... yeah..." Obviously.

"You have my baby teeth in a box."

"With pins."

"Ewwwww... That's so fucked up. EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!"

I shoot her a confused look. "Everybody keeps baby teeth. Plus, you're going to be a nurse, you should be okay with this."

"A nurse. NOT a dentist." She shudders. She reaches for a baby tooth and almost vomits.

"You're SO weird."

"I'M SO WEIRD?!?"

***

FYI everyone - according to DOCTORS - parents are supposed to keep baby teeth. You know, in case your kid needs a stem cell replacement. Mind you, I didn't know this until today when I Googled it, but still...

https://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/news/a36607/why-you-should-save-your-babys-teeth/

THE PANIC LIAR

David sucks at stopping conversations. When he has the opportunity to make a declarative statement that will allow him to be able to walk away? He can't do it.

Thursday, March 12, right before it was announced that schools would be closed and the shit had yet to actually hit the fan, David was antsy to get home. He was in rehearsals with his students for the student-written, one-act play festival. They rehearsed three afternoons a week. At 4:30 p.m., the last day before March Break, with the exuberance of teenage drama kids, they were champing at the bit to go through their plays "Just one more time, Sir?"

"Guys," said David. "No can do. I've gotta get home." (This is where he should have stopped talking.)  "It's my turn to cook dinner. It's Perogy Night!"

(There is no Perogy Night.)

"Perogy Night?!?  Really?  Cool! Do you make them yourself?"

"I do!" (He doesn't.)

"Really? The dough and everything?"

"Oh yeah!" (Nope.)

"How do you cook them?"

"Oh, I boil them up first and then like to brown them in a frying pan." (Really? You don't just take them from the freezer and nuke them and brown them?)

"What are you filling them with tonight?"

"Cheddar, bacon and chive." (And chive?!?)

David is a panic liar. He can't do small talk. He invariably says something interesting enough that there will always be follow up questions. Witness what happened when he bought a suit.

When I asked him how the perogy debacle had manifested, he said, "I didn't want to tell them that the thought of having to watch them rehearse it one more time would make my brain implode."

"You were trying to be nice."

"I was trying to be nice."

"That's a good thing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Next time though, don't tell them that you have to go home to feed your alpaca."

I HAVE BECOME A MEME

"I've decided against cutting my own hair," I say before heading upstairs to have my shower.

"That's probably a wise decision," says Rissa.

"Yeah, I can just wait until social distancing is over."

"Good choice."

I'm not sure exactly what happens before I make it into the shower, but somehow there are scissors in my hand.

I remember going into my bedroom, and divesting myself of all my sweaty exercise clothes. I know that I walk to the bathroom and remove my Fitbit. I start to pull the hair elastic from my hair... It has to be the hair elastic. I touch that hair elastic and the subliminal messaging embedded in the Unicorn Cut and Double Unicorn hair cutting videos that I'd been consuming over the weekend compel me. I am a fucking sleeper agent!

I tie my (Dry! What for the love of Vidal Sassoon possessed me to do this dry?) hair off with the hair elastic and cut.





I pull out the hair elastic to see the results.

"Uh-oh."

"You okay up there?" asks Rissa.

"Um... yeah...?"

"Heather?" Now David is calling upstairs. "You okay?"

"Yes," I say faintly, looking at the sharp line of hair that is now my first layer.

"Heather!!"

"I'm okay," I murmur, transfixed by my reflection.

"We're coming up!!"

I am standing naked and dazed in front of the mirror.

"Ma," says Rissa. "When we call you, you have to answer right away. You need to let us know you're okay." (She may be referring to previous incidences of me saying "Uh-oh" before I fall over.) Her shoulders slump and she gives me the resigned-child look. "Did you just cut your own hair?"

"I just cut my own hair."

"Ma, you just said..."

"Oh, thank God," says David as he hits the doorway, Kramer-like. Always my biggest cheerleader, he says, "Hey that's not..." I turn to face him with my dry-cut Mullet. "...terrible."

"I don't know what happened," I say, staring at the scissors. "I just don't know."

"Oh, Ma," says Rissa.

"How is it that this part is soooooo short, but this, is still soooooo long?"

"You can always take a bit more off the bottom to even it out," says Rissa. She puts my hair over my shoulders. "Just take this much more off." She indicates a couple of inches. "No, no wait, let me actually comb a part so that we're doing this scientific-like."

"I just gave myself a Unicorn Cut, can science really help me?"

"It'll be fine."

I cut another two inches from the bottom layer and then I use the twirl and cut method that I think I've seen my stylist use to get rid of the choppiness.

I hop into the shower and feel the bulk of hair at the top and the lack of bulk at the bottom. Even my hands know I've done a bad, bad thing.

Strangely though, when I towel dry my hair and throw some detangler in, it's not that bad. Oh, I'd be completely fucked if I tried to wear it straight - but curly? Curly, I might just be able to con people into believing nothing has happened. #badpandemicdecisions