Did they follow you to town?

 We watched some underwater documentary yesterday on whatever disney streaming is called, and it made me long both to go back to places we've been and go to new places where I can stare at things underwater.  And for all the self-talk about what's on the otherside of all of this to remind myself that there is an other side, I can't tell if trying to think about the future, even in the vaguest of terms, helps or harms my chill.   Because I know we can't do things like plan our next St Johns with Hands and Hips (she says and then immediately goes to vrbo to see if the place we stayed is still there and is sad when she can't find it), or try to figure out when we can go to see the great barrier reef or venice before they're gone, but even smaller things, like wanting to go back to Oleana or wanting to go buy a bike.

 

Wanting usually seems dangerous to me, even if the past twenty years have at least taught me more about how to either do it or admit to it, I'm not sure which.  But it seems extra dangerous now, like whatever shred of equilibrium I'm maintaining about quarantine, and it is definitely a shred these days, is dependent on this semi numbness, on trying not to engage with the passage of time or ideas of the future very much.

 

For all that I talk a good game about tits first, I have awful posture and the way I've been lounging in  my bed with a lap desk these past seven weeks has been nothing but awful for it.  (long train of thought hard to replicate that ended in "get yourself a sadist who knows about your IT band")  I'm definitely beating myself up for not using this time to develop some sort of in-home exercise routine, at the very least stretching more, but at some point it just gets added to the list that includes, baking yeast bread, cooking, doing yardwork, sewing, stitching, reading, walking, training the dog, learning something, organizing the attic

 

I cried yesterday at John Krasinski's some good news, and I don't even like baseball.