Rita decided to go to the farm today and it has created
quite an imbalance in the universe (the universe that is the square footage of
our quarantined world). I think this is
the first time she has left the house since we started self-quarantining in the
upstairs vs. basement (the latter being known as my Garden Apartment).
I have a strange temptation to frolic through stairwells and
engage in all sorts of clandestine behavior:
- Spend some quality time with the espresso maker
- Do laundry. I can’t explain it. Forbidden fruit and all that
- See what a fridge with vegetables looks like
- Look for the jointly owned (I say again) but well-hidden bottle of Pappy Van Winkle that we got as a wedding gift. (And that I can now confirm is not hidden anywhere in the Garden Apartment.)
- Look out a window with a different view. (How do people in NYC apartments do this every day??)
- See if my favorite loafers are still in the closet. It’s not that I have any plans to wear….shoes. It’s just that when I haven’t seen something for 4 weeks it usually means I left it in a hotel room. Until my trouser-socked feet are resting comfortably in my Franco Sartos, I will remain convinced they have been lost to an airport Hilton.
- Sit at a dining room table. Just for one meal. Then I would like to go back to eating on the couch.
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