Forced into isolation by a bit of unwise (but completely understandable) relaxation of COVID-19 distancing protocols, I've decided to document my experience. The following is a catalogue of the happenings inside my self-contained bubble. Should the worst happen, please forward this to my family.
Monday, December 21. 6:17 PM...
Food supplies are running low.
A breach in my plastic-sheeting safety barrier has been temporarily patched with several bits of painters tape, a half-chewed piece of starburst candy and something that smells like Super Glue but looks more like maple syrup. (I used half of it and ate the rest.)
Entertainment options have been exhausted and I've invented a new role-playing game. I now go by Lord Barkadian, Master of the Upstairs Order.
It's been a long two hours.
Monday, December 21. 9:18 PM...
It grows difficult to discern between reality and fantasy. As such, I have decided to begin twice-hourly reality checks. Every thirty minutes, I plan to unplug the microwave and attempt to re-program the time. If old episodes of Breaking Bad DON'T begin playing on the front of the microwave door AND the numbers stop blinking, I will declare myself sane for the moment. If I fail, at least I'll have something good to watch.
Tuesday, December 22. 3:12 PM...
A new normal. The initial panic has worn off. I'm resigned to my fate: 7 more days. If I'm lucky.
Also: I'm lucky. My quarantine zone is larger than most New York apartments. And, my putting has improved. I'm up to 7 of 10 from 4 feet. (Always bring your putter into quarantine.) Note to self: You're not very good at putting.
Monday, December 21. 6:17 PM...
Food supplies are running low.
A breach in my plastic-sheeting safety barrier has been temporarily patched with several bits of painters tape, a half-chewed piece of starburst candy and something that smells like Super Glue but looks more like maple syrup. (I used half of it and ate the rest.)
Entertainment options have been exhausted and I've invented a new role-playing game. I now go by Lord Barkadian, Master of the Upstairs Order.
It's been a long two hours.
Monday, December 21. 9:18 PM...
It grows difficult to discern between reality and fantasy. As such, I have decided to begin twice-hourly reality checks. Every thirty minutes, I plan to unplug the microwave and attempt to re-program the time. If old episodes of Breaking Bad DON'T begin playing on the front of the microwave door AND the numbers stop blinking, I will declare myself sane for the moment. If I fail, at least I'll have something good to watch.
Tuesday, December 22. 3:12 PM...
A new normal. The initial panic has worn off. I'm resigned to my fate: 7 more days. If I'm lucky.
Also: I'm lucky. My quarantine zone is larger than most New York apartments. And, my putting has improved. I'm up to 7 of 10 from 4 feet. (Always bring your putter into quarantine.) Note to self: You're not very good at putting.
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