When Life Doesn't Give You Lemons

Two weeks after the stay-at-home orders went into effect, we made our first masked trip to the grocery store. I was armed to the teeth with hand sani, but was terrified. Entering the store, I skirted around like a paranoid lemur, or a kid playing "the ground is lava," except the people were lava... I was surrounded by lava monsters.

With my anxiety off the charts, and my inner monologue telling me that this visit to the vegetables was going to be the last thing I ever did (for surely I would catch Covid from a cucumber and be dead by morning), it wasn't going to take much to push me over the edge. I clung to a tiny paper list (afraid to touch my phone) with essentials and a few specialty ingredients. Next up: lemons. I wanted to make these 'honey lemon cloud cookies' (I started my "distract me from the end times" pandemic baking early), and I needed fresh lemons. 

This was the moment that my panic about the state of the world and my first world privilege met, and did a tango. (A poorly choreographed, sporadic tango.) There was the display stand for lemons. There was the little sign with the price. And there they were, empty little shelves, with not a single lemon to be found. 

And I immediately started crying. 

Because of a lack of lemons. 

But of course, it wasn't really about the lemons. It was because my heart couldn't take one more thing. One more change. One more uncertainty. First a cancelled honeymoon and isolation from my loved ones, and now no lemons? What was next? Where would it end? Next time would there be no food at all? Would we all end up fighting for a can of who-cares-what-veggie and bartering our wedding rings for some flour, like in those post-apocalyptic films that I binged watched throughout those early days of the pani?* That empty shelf escalated into a thousand worst case scenarios in my mind, and I let them drop via tears onto my mask, afraid to touch my face to wipe them away...

And now here we are. Over a year later. We've all had a lot of ups and downs during this time. Some of us have been really lucky, and some haven't. The mental, physical, and emotional toll has looked different for each person, with a lot of striking similarities for many. But what now? What happens after a year lacking lemons? After all this hypervigilance and fear and sadness? After months of playing worst-case-scenario-roulette? 

Well here's where I'm personally at....

1. I still plan to mostly stay at home. I'll still be working remote. I still will mostly be getting carryout instead of going to restaurants. I still won't abandon my quest to watch every single WWII documentary available on streaming services. I'm not ready to fully dive back in. If you're vaccinated, and you are ready - cool, you do you. But I'm just not there yet. There were a finite number of situations in the past year where I was to be in a crowded space with strangers, and I spent a month leading up to those events having absolute panicked meltdowns, put my best game face on for the benefit of others when the time came, and then hyperventilated and sobbed in the shower for an hour once the events were over. I'm not saying it was entirely rational, but I'm not saying you'll see me out at the bar every weekend now either.  This might take me some time, and I know that probably feels weird, but I'm just not the exact same as I was before (yet? ever?), and I can't help it. Thanks for being cool about it.
2. I'm only seeing certain people in person. They're vaccinated, they haven't shown a total disregard for human life during this, and I miss them. Honestly, I'm coming out of this pani with major fucking trust issues, so while I will always care about the people I've always cared about, there are some people who I just probably don't need to ever interact with in person again, based on recent actions. And that's okay. It sucks, but it's okay. Those I do see, I may only see briefly, and it may be outside, but I'll be very overjoyed just the same. 
3. You'll probably still see me wearing a mask. At the time of typing this, only about 37% of Americans are fully vaccinated. Wearing masks is still important for those who aren't. You know, solidarity. And honestly, wearing a mask has never been a bother to me, even with my asthma. So, if it doesn't bother me, it shouldn't bother you. Don't make it painfully awkward, don't bombard me with your opinions about it, just let me do my thing. 
4. You might need to be patient with me. I might not be okay with more than a quick hug, even though I really, really miss hugs. I might only want to chat/hang out for a brief time and then leave because I'm exhausted, or anxious. I might get frustrated when I finally feel okay about seeing you in person and you say you can't because you have other plans (Is everyone just making tons of plans?? That feels too devil-may-care for me right now, in my social-prude state.). And I might be unnecessarily pissy that I didn't hear from you more when I was really down and needed you to (virtually) show up - though that's not fair, because you were going through your own shit and I likewise probably wasn't there for you when you needed me to be.** Basically: I might come with more emotions than I normally do, and they might be sitting out on my shoulder making faces, instead of tucked away neatly in my purse like usual. 
5. I still worry about things, even when they're beyond my control. I know, I know, I know, worrying constantly about things beyond your control isn't sustainable. I get it that I have a finite sphere of influence, and that in all this, I can just do what I can to control my own personal actions to do my personal best to protect myself and my loved ones. I can't make someone else get vaccinated. I can't control what nutball conspiracy theories someone adds to a spew mountain of Facebook comments, or who believes them. I can't influence global policy to ensure equity in vaccine distribution. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't break when I see this virus ravaging India, or when I hear about an immunocompromised person who was unable to get vaccinated dying, or when I witness the anxiety amongst my friends with kids who don't know how best to protect their little ones with the world reopening. I wish I could just shut off that switch and say "I'm good, I'm vaccinated, so, the pandemic is over for ME, let's get back at it!" but I am not there. This thing is still happening. And the longer it goes unchecked in some areas, the more likely it is to mutate and come back around to impacting me - so yes, I'll probably continue to worry and care and be vocal and if that bothers you, well, then shoo. Because my mama bear nature applies on a wider scale. 

There is going to come a point where I'll look back on and read old posts and statuses from this time and not feel them so deeply maybe. Right now, when timehop puts me back a year, I just nod and find that I am in a very similar mental frame now as I was then. The lemons might be back on the shelf, but that shelf still feels empty. I hope it won't forever. And I hope someday this will feel like a distant memory. In the meantime, stay safe, friends, and treasure your lemons while ye may.

And for now, we look for alternatives.

* Yes, I sometimes call the pandemic a "pani," like it's some sort of casual friend that I have a little nickname for. I know other people call it other things. I know it's stupid. But I need to minimize this monster in my mind sometimes in order to survive, so just let me have this silly quip. 

** Don't worry, I promise not to ever talk about this outloud with any of you. What's past is past, I know we all did our best and our individual best looked different on different days for each of us. So some days when I was curled up in a ball and needed you, you might have been in your own ball needing me - this year was just a stalemate of support in so many cases, and what good is it actually being pissy about it? So, just know that this subtle bitterness is all in my head and won't ever surface in person. Love you, mean it.