Life in the Time of Coronavirus
I was supposed to go to San Diego this coming Monday. I was supposed to go to Orange County the week after that. I was supposed to go to Sacramento the week after that. I will not be making any of these trips.
Come hell or high water, I will be taking a trip to Nashville at the end of the first week of April, not the least of which because I bought this airfare before the panic set in and, well, that money isn't coming back. But also, I will be taking that trip barring significant changes because, well, life still has to be lived.
At the beginning of this week, here in Seattle, it seemed like that was the majority opinion. The past two days, though, matters seem to have changed.
The horror stories of coworkers trimming their toenails at their desks while on conference calls are the stuff of legend. But, sure, in a societal work culture of open floor plans and long work hours and working-while-sick-because-well-every-day-is-a-playoff-game-here-at-Initech, our offices are prime territory for sharing diseases of all sorts. We've all watched as the whole office gets the same cold. So, the logic of companies telling their employees to work from home -- especially in a era where the bulk of full-time urban workers have all the tools they need to work from literally anywhere the internet exists -- is sound.
At the same time, many denizens of those offices won't sit on a just-cleaned toilet seat despite a lack of open wounds on their rear ends that might admit what few germs lay in wait on the plastic.
Our nationwide "germaphobia" (it's actually "nosophobia" if you want to win a bar bet) is not our ally in the face of coronavirus. As much as I travel, I'm used to watching passengers sit next to me and spend a minute wiping down every surface they can touch with an anti-bacterial wipe at boarding, then promptly getting out their phones, laptops or tablets, take cups directly from the hands of flight attendants, touch the bathroom door on the plane and get into an Uber or Lyft upon arrival. But, at least they cleansed some small percentage of germs on the seat in front of them?
Fears are not rational. That may explain why my wife called and told me that the grocery store she stopped in yesterday afternoon strictly to grab some items for dinner was not only heavily picked over but out of bucatini. Yes, friends, in one Seattle neighborhood, the people stocking up for the apocalypse prioritized only the trendiest pasta variety ("they still have lots of linguine," my wife said) for their self-imposed quarantine.
(Worry not: another grocery store less than a mile from the one in question had bucatini. Our cacio e pepe was prepared as prescribed by the recipe from the trendy foody magazine. Such close shaves...)
That said, some of the other signs are there. I had a window seat on my bus commute every day this week (usually, I snag one of the last available aisle seats). I picked my wife up from a class she taught in downtown Seattle yesterday at the height of rush hour and I was able to scoot out of there in seconds, a drive that normally is an exercise in patience. Tonight, I will attend a major sporting event and, while the crowd normally numbers 40,000, I expect half that might attend.
The effects are starting to ripple. Panic begets new panic. When we lived in North Carolina (oh-so-long-ago, at this point), a hurricane was rumored to disrupt the delivery of fuel to the southeast. People started to gas up. Enough for lines at the pump to back up onto the highway. Seeing, that, others thought they better best get gas now, too, lest stations run out. Then, the stations DID run out.
So it is here and now. Word gets out that a store is out of toilet paper or (the horror!) bucatini and people horde what they can find. The county says you should avoid gatherings of more than 10 people. Suddenly you're calling off dinner. You stay in. How will this affect small businesses if this goes on for months? Because... honestly? It's probably going to be months.
It has its perks. The gym has been empty. I have never been less exposed to disease at the gym as I was this week. I'm being diligent, too. At the end of my workout, I'm placing my water bottle and phone aside and thoroughly wiping down the machine. In doing so, I realized that, through all of this, I'm ultimately dependent on the actions of others. I can wipe down my machine, but I cannot make others do so.
I can choose to stay in, but I still need to get groceries and who knows who touched what there. So, then I could stay home and have groceries delivered. But who knows who packed and bagged those? And who knows what the delivery person has encountered today? So what then? Grow and make my own bucatini?
No. I choose to live. It's a conscious living, to be sure. Wash my hands. Cough or sneeze into my sleeve (it is super neat that this virus is hitting Seattle as tree pollen is happening, which means my own allergies as well as those of many others are here). Maybe don't lick every surface I encounter... like normal.
Two weeks ago, The Atlantic said it plainly: you're likely to get this thing. I'm not looking forward to it, though I assume it will be a great week or two for eating ramen, losing weight and watching 30 For 30 documentaries.
And that's not to say I'm hoping to get it or not trying to avoid getting it. I'm just accepting the inevitability of disease. Hell, I've probably had a coronavirus before. Just not this one.
We get sick. When we do, we have to fight and fight to win. Hydrate. Listen to our bodies. Get help when we know something is above and beyond what normal symptoms are.
But if it's a choice between changing everything and getting sick or being vigilant and still living life and getting the same sick, I'll take the latter.
At least I'll have a good seat on my commute.
Come hell or high water, I will be taking a trip to Nashville at the end of the first week of April, not the least of which because I bought this airfare before the panic set in and, well, that money isn't coming back. But also, I will be taking that trip barring significant changes because, well, life still has to be lived.
At the beginning of this week, here in Seattle, it seemed like that was the majority opinion. The past two days, though, matters seem to have changed.
The horror stories of coworkers trimming their toenails at their desks while on conference calls are the stuff of legend. But, sure, in a societal work culture of open floor plans and long work hours and working-while-sick-because-well-every-day-is-a-playoff-game-here-at-Initech, our offices are prime territory for sharing diseases of all sorts. We've all watched as the whole office gets the same cold. So, the logic of companies telling their employees to work from home -- especially in a era where the bulk of full-time urban workers have all the tools they need to work from literally anywhere the internet exists -- is sound.
At the same time, many denizens of those offices won't sit on a just-cleaned toilet seat despite a lack of open wounds on their rear ends that might admit what few germs lay in wait on the plastic.
Our nationwide "germaphobia" (it's actually "nosophobia" if you want to win a bar bet) is not our ally in the face of coronavirus. As much as I travel, I'm used to watching passengers sit next to me and spend a minute wiping down every surface they can touch with an anti-bacterial wipe at boarding, then promptly getting out their phones, laptops or tablets, take cups directly from the hands of flight attendants, touch the bathroom door on the plane and get into an Uber or Lyft upon arrival. But, at least they cleansed some small percentage of germs on the seat in front of them?
Fears are not rational. That may explain why my wife called and told me that the grocery store she stopped in yesterday afternoon strictly to grab some items for dinner was not only heavily picked over but out of bucatini. Yes, friends, in one Seattle neighborhood, the people stocking up for the apocalypse prioritized only the trendiest pasta variety ("they still have lots of linguine," my wife said) for their self-imposed quarantine.
(Worry not: another grocery store less than a mile from the one in question had bucatini. Our cacio e pepe was prepared as prescribed by the recipe from the trendy foody magazine. Such close shaves...)
That said, some of the other signs are there. I had a window seat on my bus commute every day this week (usually, I snag one of the last available aisle seats). I picked my wife up from a class she taught in downtown Seattle yesterday at the height of rush hour and I was able to scoot out of there in seconds, a drive that normally is an exercise in patience. Tonight, I will attend a major sporting event and, while the crowd normally numbers 40,000, I expect half that might attend.
The effects are starting to ripple. Panic begets new panic. When we lived in North Carolina (oh-so-long-ago, at this point), a hurricane was rumored to disrupt the delivery of fuel to the southeast. People started to gas up. Enough for lines at the pump to back up onto the highway. Seeing, that, others thought they better best get gas now, too, lest stations run out. Then, the stations DID run out.
So it is here and now. Word gets out that a store is out of toilet paper or (the horror!) bucatini and people horde what they can find. The county says you should avoid gatherings of more than 10 people. Suddenly you're calling off dinner. You stay in. How will this affect small businesses if this goes on for months? Because... honestly? It's probably going to be months.
It has its perks. The gym has been empty. I have never been less exposed to disease at the gym as I was this week. I'm being diligent, too. At the end of my workout, I'm placing my water bottle and phone aside and thoroughly wiping down the machine. In doing so, I realized that, through all of this, I'm ultimately dependent on the actions of others. I can wipe down my machine, but I cannot make others do so.
I can choose to stay in, but I still need to get groceries and who knows who touched what there. So, then I could stay home and have groceries delivered. But who knows who packed and bagged those? And who knows what the delivery person has encountered today? So what then? Grow and make my own bucatini?
No. I choose to live. It's a conscious living, to be sure. Wash my hands. Cough or sneeze into my sleeve (it is super neat that this virus is hitting Seattle as tree pollen is happening, which means my own allergies as well as those of many others are here). Maybe don't lick every surface I encounter... like normal.
Two weeks ago, The Atlantic said it plainly: you're likely to get this thing. I'm not looking forward to it, though I assume it will be a great week or two for eating ramen, losing weight and watching 30 For 30 documentaries.
And that's not to say I'm hoping to get it or not trying to avoid getting it. I'm just accepting the inevitability of disease. Hell, I've probably had a coronavirus before. Just not this one.
We get sick. When we do, we have to fight and fight to win. Hydrate. Listen to our bodies. Get help when we know something is above and beyond what normal symptoms are.
But if it's a choice between changing everything and getting sick or being vigilant and still living life and getting the same sick, I'll take the latter.
At least I'll have a good seat on my commute.
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