The Covidiaries Part 5

Well that happened. We all knew it was going to happen, but hell, a lot of us really hoped it wouldn’t.

That is all to be said about that.

It has been a reasonably quiet week here on the compound. I have taken to wearing a flowing white towel and preaching sermons of brotherly love to the pigeons which occupy the feeder. My congregation stare at me with beaks full of seeds, in rapturous awe of the lunatic on the mount. Perhaps this is how religions are born? When people have nothing better to do with their time.

Before I start wearing sandals and believing I am the second coming (note: not of Christ, but of anyone… probably some 16th century monk called Greg), I have decided to sink my efforts into less ecclesiastical pursuits. My morning gym routine continues to be good. It is usually comprised of a half hour Pilates session followed by burpees and other movements which make me say the word “fuck” a lot. Obviously, it is important to stay motivated during these sessions, so I crank my sound system up to full volume and let the valley in front of my flat enjoy my music taste at 5:45 in the morning. On weekends I let everyone sleep till 6:00.

Song choices vary, but the deeper into my isolation the stranger they become. When this all started, I was quite reasonable with selections of Van Halen (“Jump” really is a nice way to start the day) to some sweet electro (Justice is a must for anyone who prefers quality). However, I am no longer sated by these, and have found a perverse delight in cacophonous primal drumming while someone shouts in Norwegian. Yes, I am talking about Heilung. Now, along with my morning cup of coffee and idiot jumping routine, I feel like I am stalking a bear in the forest while sprouting antlers backed by first world medical care. When this is all done and dusted, my “Gym Choonz” playlist is going to devolve exclusively into the sounds of a butchery on fire. Screw your aggressive Hip Hop to pump iron to! Your boy has got goat-skin-drum-beats and a fat guy gargling marbles for his treadmill routine.

I am not even talking about Pilates. Forgive me. It is hardly a new pursuit in my life, but I am not about to pretend to be so cultured as to have done it for years. I pick it up for a while every few months and then, just when my lower back feels good again, I drop it like an elevator carrying Joe Exotic’s nob piercings. I have in the past been lucky enough to have had excellent instructors, but now I am limited to what is on Millennial DSTV (Youtube). There are some great channels out there! And I would really recommend that if ever you find yourself at a loss to occupy your time that following some of these tutorials would do you good. I have two favorites; the first being Pilates with Hannah. Here, a well-spoken woman of non-descript Asian ancestry leads you through a crushing routine without breaking a sweat. Her limber legs throw themselves in multiple directions only for the viewer (me) to stare blankly at the screen and wonder if the vitruvian man knows he is wrong. The second channel is eFit30. Next to Steve Irwin, carbon dioxide and Aussie Rules shorts, it is the best thing to have been made in Australia. A collection of lovely Shiela’s lead you through powerful routines with expert care and grace. I watched a young lady this morning with a stomach designed in a wind tunnel, show me how to do a crunch so the food in my tummy filed its notice. She then made me do a hundred more because we keep beating them at rugby. 10/10 would recommend.

In other news, months of saving ZZZ tomato containers is finally about to yield results. I am going to start my micro-green garden. It is going to be full of colorful little leaves and varieties of plants to titillate my slowly developing health consciousness. At least it would have, had not the fuckwittery of the last few weeks extend to buying seeds for some reason. Well done you callosal asshats. Its not all doom and gloom though, I managed to find the last packet of lettuce seeds and an industrial bag of beetroot. In a week, I will stare down at my containers and marvel as they pour out of the soil uniform red shoots with the odd splash of green. Whoever you are that is hoarding chive seeds, understand that Linda Blair and I have the same opinion of your mother.

My landlord’s kids are settling into a better routine. This is nice. I have timed their tantrum to about 15:00 every day which is okay because my bird congregation only gets in at 16:00. I don’t tolerate disruptions during my sermons. The kinds are playing in the garden more which is actually a nice thing to have outside your window (I am not being sarcastic). Kids should be doing kid things, and honestly, I don’t want to stand in the way of happiness for them while they know they can still get it.

Damn this uncertainty.

It is… lonely here. I am lucky that I have what I have during this isolation – an income, security in the home and pantry… my list of blessings is endless. Its nice that the things I worry about are limited to how I am going to stay in shape as opposed to when I will have a meal. I am also lucky that my mind is what it is. I do not wrestle with anxiety, depression, or any number of the modern ailments which have come to define my generation. The last few weeks have taught me a number of things about my own internal landscape. These have been lessons which have affirmed sources of strength and honestly, that isn’t a boast, it’s a comfort. When we got the news last night that the deadline was extended, an old part of me wanted to curl into a ball and cry. When will I ever be able to see people I care about again? My mother and father? My friends and loved ones? Perspective came when I understood these were my only worries. I wasn’t worried about paychecks or job security, but by a transient need to be touched by another human being which seriously won’t do me any harm. This isn’t a problem, it’s a quibble.

This morning when I woke up and blasted the nightmarish sounds of medieval Norwegian folk-rock, the quibble was gone and another blessed day stood ahead of me.

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