What I've feared most about post-pandemic life

I haven't feared returning to 'normal life.' I've feared not being able to return to normal life. 

I fear that I will recede even more from public life than before the pandemic, that I will decline even more invitations, that I will become someone who won't join any club that would have her, to paraphrase an old saying I heard growing up (an aspiration I was already fighting before we were put under by the pandemic anesthesiologist).

I fear I will talk to even fewer people. I will go out even less than I did before the pandemic. I'll end up shelving even more plans to walk around town or visit the museum or catch a movie by myself (well, maybe not that last one, since it is something I love and is by definition, not social).

To sum up, I fear the lessons -- and the habits -- of the past year have made an indelible impression upon me, permanently altering how I navigate the world.

To be sure, my hope is that I will go on a frenzy of visits and meetups and I've already thought about the places I'd like to visit -- Philadelphia, to see dear old friends; the Jersey Shore, to sit for hours listening to my aunts and uncles while I still can; and of course, eventually, to Italy to console my beloved Italian friends, one of whom likened the lockdown to being 'seppelliti in casa,' buried in your house.

But I see how the pandemic has conspired to etch an extremely small world for me, after motherhood  had -- for very good reasons -- already done the same (motherhood opened many doors, but logically closed others; it's been a minute since I've visited a disco, for starters. It's been a minute since I've considered a job that would require a lot of travel). 

Now a converted suburbanite (YIKES!) amid a global pandemic, I basically don't go anywhere other than Leo's school. 

We hike, yes, we do a lot of hiking. And it feels wonderful.

But that's it. Until we were vaccinated earlier this month, we rarely even walked into town. Because in town, there are people.

I am now old. When I return to Italy, I prepare at length for the long vacation days where I will walk endless distances over cobblestones, talk with long-lost friends, kvetch, window-shop, live outdoors. Chalk it up to a midlife awakening to the pleasures of being a partial introvert (probably very surprising to people I knew in other lives, but helpful for my writing efforts).

Similarly, I think I need to begin preparing now to live again, post-pandemic. But how? 

Small steps, I guess. I finally saw my old friend, Beth, last month, after a year-long hiatus and gorged on nearly four hours of glorious conversation. We met at a nature preserve in Massachusetts, halfway between our homes. I didn’t even have lunch – just a granola bar. The conversation was my lunch. The boys ran ahead and dammed creeks and climbed rocks and we just talked and talked. Leo was frequently waving sticks dangerously but I paid no attention until Beth helpfully alerted me. I was just lost in wonderful conversation!

And it's not to say there haven't been many moments during the pandemic of beauty and joy, particularly for someone such as myself who has come to crave solitude (just not 100 percent of the time). During a brief visit to my parents' beach on the Jersey Shore last month, I mounted the steps to the boardwalk and turned around for one last look, saying, “Goodbye, Atlantic Ocean. I love you!” It wasn’t the first time that I'd said that to the ocean (just ask her) but it struck me: How odd. How sad. How true.

A look at the photo above tells you a bit about how I've spent the pandemic -- at home with my beloved son and now his beloved dog (Caramel). Not a bad way to hole up. Maybe you did the same?

But I haven't embraced anyone other than family members in a year -- and even among family members, it's been rare! I've seen my sister but I haven't hugged her. Can you imagine seeing your sister and giving her a nod? Like someone you've met on occasion. Like a friend of a friend of a friend. (You probably can because you're buried under by this pandemic, too.)

All of this probably sounds hysterical. 

But the life of the mom of an 8-year-old is already pretty circumscribed, as it should be. At 8 p.m., most likely she's sitting on the edge of the bathtub or her child's bed. She's not out dancing. (She, er, -- I).

What's more, there is already so much inertia in American family life. This pull that everyone be synced.

This slow accretion. This slow movement toward giving up, letting go, surrendering. The pandemic has exacerbated this trend.

I say this as someone who has completely converted to parenthood! It's my religion now. I proudly live like a monk, going to bed early every single night. I shudder whenever I think I almost missed the motherhood train. (Shoot, I wasn't even at the station, but I digress).

But to state the obvious, the pandemic has ushered in a return to 24-7 parenting. Also, 24-7 marriage or whatever you call your romantic situation (I usually call mine 'living in sin' if I am with other lapsed Catholics).

Who said we were supposed to be together all the time but -- and here's the catch -- not with anyone else we know?

What's more, I was already working from home part-time. Teaching from home? I did it, and would do it again because they give me money to do it, but something tells me teaching wasn't meant to be remote, as convenient as it may be, as much as Zoom has opened up new possibilities for attending events and studying subjects.

Here's the part where I have three hands ... because on the one hand, I'm bored and afraid, on the other hand grateful Covid has not touched my family as it has others, and then on the other other hand -- or the third hand -- worried about how Covid has narrowed my life.

(And I am not even getting into how it has likely narrowed my career prospects).

Yet while I suspect some of you reading this may agree with my thoughts, you'll also agree, if you've been lucky like me and can report losing no one to COVID, that these protestations are petty. Small ball. A sign of insane ungratefulness. (Which, again, if you're Catholic, is right next to being a spoiled brat in the pantheon of BAD SINS). Unlike many others, I've seen my parents a lot this past year.

Nonetheless, we are social animals -- even the introverts among us. We are not meant to go days and days and weeks without seeing other people. We are not meant to only pace the backyard (I've memorized mine. Thank god for those effin' tulips giving me something new to gaze upon).

Probably extroverts everywhere have a bottle of champagne or a kazoo hidden under their coats, ready to celebrate. Maybe already celebrating!

I hope I will slowly be joining them.

But I don't know that it will happen, and this is what I fear.

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