15 Great And Terrible Ways The Pandemic Made My Life Like A Movie
I have spent so much time on my couch that it bears a permanent impression of my body, like that left on the bed by Norman Bates’ mother’s mummified corpse.
Much like a movie villain waiting for the hero to show up, I sit in an unlit room long after the sun has gone down, stroking my cat in my lap, and startling my housemates when they come in and flip on the light. Only sometimes do I say, “I have been expecting you, Mr. Bond.”
As in a horror movie, we were told to “Trust no one” when it comes to possible Covid contagion. Sometimes I even glimpse myself in a mirror, in my own house, and think, “Unmasked intruder!”
Last week, I walked away from an explosion in slow motion, like an action star. The thing that had exploded was not a helicopter or car, however, but a potato that I had forgotten to poke holes in before microwaving. Unfortunately, unlike an action star, I had to go back later to clean it up because my roommates were upset that the microwave now had a potato lining.
I run into people I know so frequently that it seems like an easy plot device. Of course, it probably helps that the only people I ever see live in my house and none of us ever really go anywhere.
Like the heroine of every romantic comedy following the inevitable but temporary rift between her and her love interest, I devote part of each day to mournfully staring out my window while sad music plays. If it rains, so much the better.
When the pandemic began, as in every disaster movie, there was a shortage of vital supplies – in the case of COVID, it was toilet paper. So when I returned triumphant to my apartment with a 24-pack under my arm, having snatched the very last of the store’s supply, I felt that I had saved my roommates from certain lavatorial doom.
Like a suburban father in a movie, I now wear my robe and slippers to get the newspaper. These days, there is much more to be ashamed of than my Monty Python Killer Rabbit slippers.
I cut my own hair on a whim, like a manic pixie dream girl. It was certainly manic, and unquestionably a dream to think that I could do it – this pixie looked more like a hedgehog.
As in a rom-com, my next-door neighbor and I have a classic will-they-won’t-they dynamic going on. On the rare occasion one of us leaves the house, and on the even rarer occasion that we leave the house at the same time, there’s always tension in the air. At least, I think there is – it’s hard to gauge through his hazmat suit.
On several separate occasions, I tried on all the clothes in my closet for no particular reason. If my cat had been filming me instead of just licking herself on my bed, I would have had a honey of a montage.
I have started eating Chinese food directly out of the carton instead of putting it on a plate like a real person. This is primarily because it would be too much effort to do anything else. And it cuts down on dishes.
Any time I slip my mask off in public (at a safe distance), I feel like a superhero offering a glimpse of my secret identity. Let us hope that none of my enemies also happen to be at CVS when I have to blow my nose.
As for many a haggard action star, “I’m getting too old for this” has become a staple of my everyday conversation. What I am getting “too old for” is basically anything that requires more effort than eating chicken nuggets and watching TV shows I have already seen.
I go outside so rarely that when I do, I blink and squint for several minutes in the direct sunlight, like a prisoner in a movie being released from jail after serving years for a crime I didn’t commit. And I, too, shall seek my revenge.