I figured out the other day that I haven’t been out of the house since Memorial Day.
There was a time, not too long ago, that really would have bothered me, but it doesn’t bother me now.
For one thing, it’s very hot and humid outside, and the air quality is bad.
For another, there’s nothing out there that I really want to do.
Before the entire world locked down, I was pretty adamant about wanting to go to Starbucks at least twice a week.
Now, it’s been such a long time, I realize I just wanted to go out of habit, and I’ve gotten out of that habit.
It’s kind of disappointing, on the one hand; on the other hand, it’s a kind of freedom.
So, instead of sitting at Starbucks banging around aimlessly on my laptop, now I sit at home, banging around aimlessly on my laptop.
The experience is roughly the same, except I’m not spending money, and if I decide I want to take a nap (these days, my body just sort of decides it’s time for a nap), I don’t feel funny about it.
I just doze off, and have a little sleep, and pretty wild dreams about sitting in a conversation pit that’s carpeted with shag carpet, with a pitcher of Sangria and a pack of Benson & Hedges Menthols, talking with people from the ’70’s.
Men who look like Richard Dawson, with long sideburns and hairy chests poking out of wildly-designed acetate shirts and medallions, and women who look like Gloria Steinem in long dresses and photogray glasses that always seem a little dark.
Then I wake up and realize that it’s 2021, not 1971, and that I’m in my house in Georgia, and that I stopped smoking and drinking years ago, and Richard Dawson is dead and Gloria Steinem is in her 80’s and that there’s a whole lot of water under the bridge in 50 years.
It’s nice to visit the ’70’s, but I wouldn’t want to live there…