When lockdown sends you batshit crazy

lockdown

Being locked down for 87 whatever days has me doing crazy things, like spring cleaning the entire house come wine o’clock Friday. Not exactly a happy hour. But shows the level of desperation to bookend the week so that weekends are not all the samey. 

Even Netflix is losing its shine as the couch moulds perfectly to my backache.

I yearn to be somewhere else, preferably on a beach on a tropical island. And I live at the beach! We even drove to 1.5 hours to sit on another beach just because it had white sand and not black. 

It could be worse, much worse.

Doing the pandemic in the 70’s – no Netflix, no face zooming, no swiping right, and The Waltons – but then car-less days wouldn’t be an issue. My car is growing a second skin of leaves, dust and spiders. Thankfully not a Tesla going to waste.

I don’t miss the rush here, rush there and dancing to someone else’s clock.

I would have achieved that elusive work-life balance if there was no work involved. Instead, it feels more like work-life bleed, bleeding out over the kitchen table as I experience my first ever catfishing in a zoom call – the disappointment is real, ladies.

How is it possible to have your wall calendar wiped clean month after month and still feel exhausted from doing absolutely nothing? 

Maybe it’s all that thinking. A dangerous thing, so my husband says.

We end up doing all manner of crazy things my brain cooks up. Like driving 11 hours through the night, 7 months pregnant, to a foreign country in a van with 3 cats to live in the middle of nowhere with just 2 neighbours.

Oh well, at least life is never boring with me, except during lockdown.

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