Drop Your #quaranroutine
The person in the world who can best un-ironically use the phrase "taking a lover", NYT culture writer Jenna Wortham, recently dropped her New York City Coronavirus quarantine routine to Vanity Fair.
It. Is. Incredible.
I had no idea people were winning this hard at quarantine. I'm jealous and fascinated and cannot help but compare my own adventurous but measurably lacklusture life to hers wherein, according to this piece in Vanity Fair, she can "wake up to crushing anxiety" and somehow overcome this within a few hours.
What sorcery is this, Jenna. Is it the kombucha?
My experience has been. Um. Different.
Friday, March 27
The sun is extra sparkly through the curtains this morning. Quarantine started last night, but this is the first full day. I’m glad to be up early so I can really dig in and get some work done. I roll over and check my phone before I make coffee; if it’s just after 7 here in Johannesburg, it’s right after midnight in Chicago. I don’t have any messages so I look at some memes for a while. I am fucking ready as hell for this quarantine.
Damn, so I fell asleep again. But no worries, I can still get some serious work done today. I’m a travel writer in a tanking industry, so I really need to update my pitch sheet and start planning a rebrand if I’m going to continue to do things like eat and have a place to sleep. But I have a piece due I have to finish before I start that project. I make some coffee.
So my girlfriends back in the Chi taught me to check on who’s looking at my stories. I always forget to, but for some reason this coffee is making me feel investigative, and lo and behold all of my exes are here. I mean, okay. Not all of them, but enough. And only two of them do I speak to with any regularity.
Is this happening to everyone? I have a lot of millennial friends so I decide to ask them. On Instagram. “Are y’all’s exes watching, like, all of your stories?” I posit in my stories, with a poll.
I was just catching up on the news, but I’m really about to work. For real.
Saturday, March 28
Okay, I’m going to work in the morning, for sure.
So I just woke up and turns out 77% of my friends are getting ferociously stalked by their exes on the internet during this pandemic. I checked who’s looking at mine again, and the end-all-be-all ex is in there. Like, the Big, Bad ex. And it’s crazy because I didn’t even know that he knew what stories are. He’s like 5, 6 years older than me; he’s the type of person that would try to put an apostrophe in a hashtag or a link in a comment on Instagram. He’s not a complete luddite...but he’s definitely from a different part of Gen X than I am if you know what I mean.
So the thing is: like, the last time I spoke to him I was very, very clear that like, I would absolutely and under no circumstances be a part of his life anymore. How is he seeing this? Didn’t I block him on Instagram?
Oh, okay, so I blocked him on Facebook, but not Instagram.
So I was watching Trevor Noah’s “show” from his house: it’s hilarious. But it reminds me that I’m supposed to be writing a piece about Miriam Makeba so now I feel guilty. I also feel unaccomplished reading about her career: by the time she was my age, she had been married like four times and had six passports.
So I’m just wondering like, what happens when you turn forty and you’re realizing that the person that you’ve loved the most in your life was remorselessly cruel to you? Like, what does that mean? You know how when you’re a teenager and your criteria for who you’re gonna go out with is all complicated: like they have to have the same favorite band or color or brand of tennis shoes as you or whatever, and be tall, and have a certain hair or eye color, and all this other shit I can’t even remember. But it’s not like that anymore. I think to myself, like, Miranda, what are you really looking for? And it’s pretty much just like. Nice. Funny. There’s not really anything else so it’s so weird that it’s so much harder. But there are just so many deal breakers now. I’m not saying I’m going to be alone forever but
HOLY SHIT it’s only day two of quarantine. That happened really fucking fast, I figured I wouldn’t decide I was going to be alone forever until at least week two.
Sunday, March 29
Little did Michael Stipe know: at the end of the world, you don’t have to scream into the void for some time alone, you’ll just get it. In spades.
I woke up before 2, so I’m gonna call that reasonable. I made some coffee and am trying to figure out how to get this $1200 stimulus check that Americans are supposedly now going to get. I only did work as a contractor all last year, so I haven’t filed yet this year because I can’t afford to. But apparently I have to file to get it, but there’s no way I’ll be able to afford to pay my taxes so. Yanno. That’s really fun. Whatever, I should prolly finish this piece, and then worry about that later.
Cara sent me some clip but I can’t watch it in South Africa and I’m out of time on my VPN for the month. I scroll through PornHub to see what’s on the front page. It’s like all this stepsister nonsense that grosses me out. But whatever, eating sounds better than masturbating anyway.
See, I don’t have to finish this piece tonight, I mean, as long as I finish it by tomorrow, it’s fine.
He hit me once, you know. We were having one of those week-long break-ups where we both already know that I’m going to leave on a plane (classic) and the night before I left we got in a fight because I asked him a question. Some simple question like “do you love me” or “who am I to you” or whatever, and he fucking lost it. We were laying in bed, and he started throwing a full tantrum, and he balled up his fists and was slamming them into the mattress. My left thigh got in the way of this, and I wore that bruise for weeks while I cried, alone, in another state, desperate and missing what it felt like to sleep in his bed.
OKAY, somebody come fetch my friend Yo, SHE IS HILARIOUS for real. The memes she sends are totally out of control, I swear to god.
Monday, March 30
It’s not that late in the States yet, so I just dropped a line to an editor who ordered two pieces from me, but I’ve only heard from once in the last six weeks.
WHAT THE FUCK somebody seriously stop me from sending something ratchet as all hell to this editor, I cannot believe she just said this to me.
Oh word, one of my cool editors just hit me up looking for 1000 words on what I miss about traveling. At this point, I wish I could just travel down the block from this tiny cabin in Johannesburg.
But like, am I just going to die not knowing if he loved me? Is that something I’ll ever get to know? I mean, I have to get out of South Africa. My visa expired two days ago, and I mean, we’ll get some allowance because of the lockdown. But how long will this go on? I have to get on a plane at some point, and I’m supposed to just cross my fingers that I don’t catch this fucking virus on the way to Tbilisi or Cairo or Istanbul or wherever the fuck I’m going and then I just die, alone in some country and FUCK ME do you know I’ve been to China six times and I’ve never seen the Great Wall?
Maybe I should go to Cairo, I’ve never seen the pyramids, either.
The Taj Mahal.
The Treasury in Petra.
How much time has to pass before I can forget what his neck smelled like.
Should I just delete my Instagram?
Damn, y’all know that Kelle Edwards has a diving and a pilot's license? I have a suitcase full of nonsense and this bungalow rented for a few more weeks. OH SHIT I should take a shower.
Well, FUCK ME I should have done that earlier, that shower was great. Instead of putting on the same dirty sweatpants, I’m actually going to put on some clean leggings to complete this incredible feeling. And then I SWEAR TO GOD I’m going to fucking write something today.
What the fuck is Tiger King?
Tuesday, March 31
WHAT THE HOLY FUCK DID I JUST WATCH?