Don’t Ask Me About My Weekend During a Pandemic
So. Do you have any big plans for the weekend? You doin’ anything exciting?
For as long as I’ve been doing the 9 to 5 thing, I’ve hated that question. It’s unavoidable. Some coworkers just can’t help but ask. It’s polite. It’s friendly. It’s what people do.
To me, though, the question feels intrusive and aggressive, like somebody’s suddenly asked to look in my underwear drawer. It’s full of cotton granny panties. Comfortable. Private. Embarrassing. My weekends have never been the kind anyone wants to know about.
I’m not what you’d call an active person. The most basic workweek leaves me mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. All I want to do on the weekend is sleep late, read library books, and if I’m feeling ambitious, make crafts. I look forward to those small pleasures with the same enthusiasm that others look forward to training for marathons, shopping, and bar-hopping.
Long before Coronavirus, I was a confirmed homebody. And for a brief moment, I got to use the pandemic as an excuse.
In the months leading up to Coronavirus, I was involved with my local improv theater, where I performed about twice a month. I loved performing with my troupe mates. And yet, I had to force myself to do it. I always knew that once I got myself to the theater, I would become energized with the joy of connecting with people I adore. It was the getting out of the house part that was so hard because improv happens after bedtime.
My last improv show was in February. When the theater closed, I was disappointed. I missed my one social activity. I needed my community. But I was also relieved. I could finally stop pushing myself.
I’m an essential worker so my job never went away, even during lockdown. Work has become even more exhausting during this time and I’ve come to treasure my weekends of solitude even more. Coronavirus conveniently provided me with the perfect excuse to spend my weekends at home, no questions asked. But that respite didn’t last long.
Since my city and state have reopened, going out is quickly becoming normal again. It’s becoming harder to cling to Coronavirus as an excuse. On Fridays, the question inevitably comes up. And now, in addition to the same old shame about being a boring person who doesn’t make the most of her weekend, I also feel a sense of righteous indignation.
How dare they ask what I’m doing this weekend? We’re in a health crisis. How can they go out to the karaoke bars and the restaurants and the bowling alleys and the public pools and the beauty salons? How dare they? Don’t they have any sense of responsibility? Am I the only one who cares about controlling this virus? I hate being the only mature one around here.
And piled on top of that, new shame: I’m a coward. I used to be plain old dull but now I’m neurotic.
Are you still afraid to go out? It’s actually really safe, you know. We wear our masks. If it starts to get crowded, we leave.
Put on the spot, I crumble. I lean into the assumption that I am a fearful person. Feeling trapped, I weakly admit that yes, I am scared to go places. I am afraid of bars and restaurants and all things good in the world. I am a sad, petty person controlled by my COVID phobia. I concede that I’m being ridiculous and I need to get over this crippling fear.
Privately, I cling to my twisted sense of moral superiority, telling myself that I’m the one who’s right. Me, the one staying home. Not them, with their camraderie and laughter. But that’s not exactly the truth. When the pandemic is finally and truly behind us, I will have to work extra hard to force myself back into society. It’s going to be really hard to get off the couch. Even for improv, leaving the comfort of my home will be a challenge. I will still choose, the majority of the time, to stay home with my books and my craft supplies.
I’m angry and disappointed. I thought that the pandemic was going to change everything forever. More people would remain working at home. We would never eat in restaurants again, opting instead for takeout. Fashion would cease to matter and comfy clothes would be the norm. Wearing makeup and shaving our legs would be the exception rather than the expectation. Spending weekends at home would be celebrated, not pitied.
I was wrong. The pandemic didn’t change much, not in the long run. It only provided a brief holiday. And while so many people are rushing to return to their old ways of life, I’m grasping at those few months when I had an ironclad argument in favor of being a hermit. But the Coronavirus excuse is not holding up anymore.
I guess it’s encouraging that people are not letting Coronavirus change their lives forever. With proper safety measures in place, people are masking up and getting back out there. They’re living their lives and not letting Coronavirus hold them back. The world they know and love hasn’t ended; it hasn’t been replaced by some dystopian version where everyone is an antisocial recluse.
But sometimes, I wish it had.
