My friends and I, every weekend, we talk about how we might see each other. How we might do something. And every weekend seems to pass and that does not happen. We all have a very low virus tolerance. Indoor dining? No way. Indoor wine tasting? Not going to happen. Gathering inside someone’s house just to sit on the couch? Sounds lovely but it’s a no. We think about doing something outside. Anything. But it is pretty chilly (it was “feels like” nine degrees the other day). So we talk a good game and then it is Monday. And I have only seen my mother from a distance for like ten minutes and my son. He is the only person I always see.
I had been running every day but I put my knee out right before Election Day and it is still not right. I feel like maybe I have a stress fracture on the top of that foot. My knee hurts and generally does not feel great. Running was the thing that was helping to keep me sane. And now it is off the table. I decided to go for a longish walk yesterday. I wore long underwear. A beanie. And two pairs of socks. Gloves and a scarf. Out of the wind, it was not dreadful. I like to be outside. Anyway, on the latter end of my walk a car passed and called my name. It was a woman who I met through church out practice driving with her youngest daughter (same age as my son). It was so nice to see a different person. We chatted a bit. It was lovely. I miss that so much. It felt normal. I have buried normal so far down. I can’t have it flitting about the surface because it makes me too sad.
Despite the pandemic, our library is still trying to offer services to the community. They have put cooking online and crafts can be picked up and done at home. One of the offerings this month was a writing class. I saw it in the email. It is online. The instructor is with the local community college that I graduated from with an Associate’s Degree a million years ago. I stopped by the library to renew my card. They could only take the payment for class by check or cash. I stopped by the next day with my check. Made out to the library. I gave my email to the lady at the circulation desk.
The class starts on Thursday. I am petrified. I keep checking my junk mail to make sure I have not missed an email that says that I need to do something, write something, before the class. I am afraid that I will need to provide some sample of writing. Some piece of me. I feel like there are so few pieces. And I have not been writing. Not writing at all. Maybe I can dredge something up that is older. But I was really hoping to use this as a means to force my hand. To make me write. To get something down. I am afraid that I will not be able to do that. I am afraid of being judged. Afraid of letting people in like that. Through my writing. In a way that seems very personal when compared to posting to my blog. Which seems much more anonymous. So much easier. But it felt like a good idea to do this. To tiptoe out of the bubble. My comfort zone. But I’ve paid. And I will be there. Because at some point I need to get out.