Chapter Eleven: Bursting our Bubbles
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash
May 25, 2020
Dear Diary,
Friends and family often ask me how the children are holding up and, up until this last week, my standard response was always, “remarkably well.”
Amy Beth, in particular, who abruptly flew home from college on March 14th and was forced to finish out her sophomore year from her childhood bedroom, was commendably stoic.
Rather than continuously bemoan her lost college experience, she was more apt to express gratitude for our company (and my compulsive early-stage quarantine baking). She was also mature enough to recognize some of the advantages distance learning afforded her, like a quiet place to conduct her studies, devoid of the typical collegiate distractions. To her credit and to our extreme delight, she finished the year with top grades on May 6th.
Sadly, this short period of grace has revealed itself to be as fleeting as the jacaranda’s blooming season. Gone is the woman who maintained regular hours and responsibilities and delighted to be in the company of her family. As irksome as her irregular schedule may be, it isn’t wholly unfamiliar. Frankly, I may have been known to occasionally employ strikingly similar time-management patterns in my own youth, such that I was starting to suspect that Amy Beth’s behavior was some kind of karmic retribution wished upon me by my parents circa 1998. In other words, while untenable long-term, it was something I figured we could suffer in the short-term, along with all the other current inconveniences, and hopefully be fine in the end.
And then, just as I thought everything was somewhat under control, the most fearsome challenge reared its ugly head: the twenty-something social animal’s desire to see her friends.
It all began when Amy Beth’s best-friend (let’s call her Pandora), who herself has been steadfastly quarantining with her immediate family for the past ten weeks, invited her to spend a weekend sheltering-in-place in their guest house. Since receiving the invitation, Amy Beth has campaigned at a near constant fever-pitch for the ability to accept. Her methodology has ranged from the more gentile approach of buttering us up by immaculately cleaning up the entire house, to the more aggressive (yet historically effective) method of simply cornering us and asking us every few minutes if she can go.
I can’t even fault her, Diary, because as far as I can tell, everyone I know has hit the wall in the last week.
As restaurants and communities reopen, friends all around me are questioning if we can start shifting the boundaries of each of our quarantine bubbles. Can we meet for a walk on the beach with our children? Can we share a dinner outside as long as we sit six feet apart and only use disposable dinnerware? Can we meet in your backyard for a drink around the fire pit?
I don’t know the right answer, Diary. I miss our friends and family so much. But just like I know abstinence is the only surefire way to avoid an STD, I feel the same way about bursting our bubble. I am so grateful that my bubble has enough loved ones inside to resist the impulse to break rank. But, clearly, for Amy Beth and soon others, the wolf is at our door.
Very truly yours,
Maya