Quarantine Day 4: Groundhog Day

Have you seen that movie? The Bill Murray masterpiece where weatherman, Phil Connors, relives the same day over and over until he finds true love with Rita (AKA Andie MacDowell)? I am Bill Murray. My lonely apartment is Pennsylvania. The groundhog is mocking us all.

The only thing that felt remotely different about today was the weather. Yesterday we had beautiful sunshine and temps in the mid-60s, but when my alarm went off around 7 a.m. this morning, I rolled over and pulled up the shade to find rain falling from a gray, dreary sky. For a second, it felt kind of nice; like an invitation to take it slow, roll back over, pull up the covers, bury into the pillow and snooze a bit longer.

But, my routine. It’s one of the only things helping me hold it together these days.

I resisted the urge to roll myself into a blanket burrito and threw on some running clothes, none of which were waterproof except for this rain jacket I got as a gift from an agency I did some freelance for last year. I had a feeling the trails would be a muddy mess, so I stuck to the roads. Mile after mile the rain came down harder, the temperatures dropped, sidewalks became rivers, the wind picked. When I finally turned the corner into my driveway, I had covered a little over five miles, which felt like plenty. My feet squished in little lakes of their own in the bottom of my shoes, and everything except my base layer was soaking wet. My gloves were drenched and my hands were totally frozen. I didn’t care. I felt proud of myself for taking the first step out the door, which is always the most difficult one. At the beginning of this week I made a promise to myself I’d get out for fresh air every morning, and I’m keeping it. I heard someone say awhile ago that there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes. And this morning I learned I have bad clothes and I seriously need to upgrade my gear.

Not ten minutes after I showered and made coffee, the rain droplets transformed into fat flakes of snow and quickly blanketed trees and roofs. Ironically, today is the first day of spring. Figures. Colorado weather is known to be completely unpredictable.

In an effort to make today feel different, I picked out a new sweater to wear—one that I would normally wear to work. I even threw on a vest and blow dried my hair after realizing how horrific I looked yesterday in a wet bun on a video call with my team members.

It is a new day, I told myself several times, even though it feels like more of the same. It’s Thursday. You have work to do. People are counting on you today. You are important. One day at a time. I gave myself mini pep talks when I started feeling overwhelmed with the situation and had no one to talk to.

At 5 p.m., I shut my laptop and headed to the laundromat. I had a pile of sweaty clothes and bib shorts staring at me in the bathroom that really needed some attention. For awhile I was the only one in there. Then as I was transferring my wet clothes to the dryer, a man wearing all black, surgical gloves and two masks came in with his laundry. My heart sank into my stomach. I appreciate that the man is taking precautions. I appreciate that he is probably thinking of the health and safety of himself and others. Who knows, maybe he is immunocompromised. But I hate that this is our reality. I hate that people are afraid to do their laundry in public. I hate that I don’t know how long this is going to last.

That was definitely different.

I hauled my laundry back into my apartment, took and shower, and now I’m eating croutons straight out of the bag as I type up this post.

Tomorrow is day five. The next is day six. One at a time, guys. We’ll get through.

If you need something happy to watch, I HIGHLY recommend these videos:



Dogs and babies

The Rock

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