There are rules that need to be followed in times of Social-Distancing; as a professional social-distancer, I should know better than to break these rules.
I’m sure most people have seen the meme, reminding folks that, no matter how bored you get, do not cut your own bangs. If only that was what I did.
First, before we get to my latest Social-Distancing-SNAFU, let’s take a trip back in time. The year: 2005. My status: newly (secretly) married, unemployed, in a post-Hurricane Katrina southern town, where frequent newspaper articles discussed the resurgence of carpet-bagging. And there I was, a transplant from New York, desperate to steal jobs away from Georgians. I was broke, and jobless.
Wait–before I continue on–I just opened my blinds and discovered I have not one, but two 4ft tall DANDELIONS in my front garden bed. I guess maybe now would be the time to look up Dandelion Green recipes! These are desperate times (and this is the south).
Ok. Georgia. Late November 2005. I had just gotten off the phone with a friend in NY, who had just gotten a haircut by my hairdresser, and I was feeling a little…I guess FOMO? EOHC (That would be Envy of HairCuts…but it really doesn’t have the same ring)? I had already been cutting my own hair–it was short, and I would shave up the back and trim up the top. Fun. And. Spiky. In that moment, I decided I wanted to give a pixie-cut a try. So, clippers in hand, with the #6 guard, I made an absolutely illegal move–I shaved right down the middle of my head…and instantly shouted, “oh shit!” Too late to come back from this terrible decision, I finished the job, and texted Justin: I did something really bad.
There it is: proof that you shouldn’t make spur of the moment decisions in times of extreme social distancing. Don’t listen to the voice saying, “do it! This is a good idea! You definitely won’t regret this in 5 seconds!” That voice is a dirty liar who will cut and run the second you realize it’s a bad idea, and you will definitely regret it.
Fourteen years later, I found myself participating in once again, listening to bad ideas, instigated by the voice who is just trying to get me in trouble. “Ooh, you know what would be fun?! Let’s play around with your website, and push buttons and try things, and see what happens! Doesn’t that sound like fun?! At 9:45pm, when your husband is halfway through a 38hr shift, and you can’t sleep, because you don’t know how to adult when he isn’t home to tell you to go to bed, mistakes will be made.
…and, save. And….shit. It was gone. Well, it was there, but it was sad and broken, and kept telling me something went wrong. No kidding, something went wrong! You let me think I knew what I was doing!!! I tried and tried to think of how I could fix this: maybe if I just say, “please be there, please be there, please be there,” over and over again, it will self-correct? By 1am, I gave up. I started contemplating actual solutions that would lead to results.
This morning, I woke up with a possible solution. I didn’t love what I had to do next…
Let me just say, that, as an introvert who can lean toward the edge of recluse, I have some really amazing friends scattered around the world….and I might go years without talking to them.
That’s where I found myself this morning. I hate asking for help, when the person I’m asking is someone I haven’t spoken to in half a decade. It has nothing to do with not wanting to reach out–it just feels…selfish. “Hey, I know it’s been 5 years, and how are you, and also, please help me fix my foolish blunder.”
Friendship is a magical thing. Two hours later, with a minimal amount of help from me: “How do you normally sign in?” “I don’t know. I click the link and I’m there.” He saved my life…or at least my website. We both can appreciate a healthy amount of social distancing–introverts of the world, unite. Just–stay on your own side. “THANK YOU again for saving my blog. Let’s not wait 5 years for another technical emergency, to get back in contact.” “Technical emergency IN A PANDEMIC! Hopefully, those two will never coincide again.”
Truth be told, one lead to the other. Pompous Pandemic Pluck…and that dirty voice that needs to stop giving me bad advice!
Tom wants to help you too! I mean, he didn’t say that, really. But, I’m a parent. And I know some parents. And this could come in handy, while we’re all keeping our distance, and slowly losing our minds. Just like that, my friend is now helping you! Promoting Pandemic…Philanthropy?
I feel like I’ve been out in the world more in the last 3 days than in the last 3 decades. Don’t get me wrong, I am 100% on board with Social-Distancing. I just also have to feed my family.
Monday, I played “30 Items or Less” at the Commissary (they only allow you through self-checkout if you have 30 items or less). It’s my favorite game, in my least favorite place. I can never seem to choose the proper time to shop at the commissary–if you go too late in the day, it’ll be packed. If you go around lunch-time, you’ll get swarmed by soldiers rushing in on their lunch break to get their quick-shop on. And of course, if you’re a real glutton for punishment, you will go midday on payday. I hoped that by going early enough (even though Monday was dangerously close to payday), I could avoid the Toilet Paper Frenzy.
I have to admit something–some time in February, before the world started going to war over 2-ply, I purchased an 18 pack of mega-rolls. It was purchased in the middle of 2 weeks of nonstop rain. We’re not talking the rain that happens most places: “oh no, look at this rain. It’s been raining for days. But at least my flowers will grow.” We’re talking Chattahoochee River flooding, blinding rain, ditches that become small front yard rivers. After I brought in my food groceries, I looked like I had gone swimming in our ditch river, so I said to myself (I talk to myself…a lot…who doesn’t? No really, who are you, because I guess not everyone has internal monologue, and I want to know how you make it through the day without someone to talk to? Maybe my internal monologue is the reason I’m so ok with being alone), “I’ll just leave the toilet paper in the van until it stops raining.”
Waiting until it stopped raining turned into waiting until we actually needed it. Have you met me?? Sammi’s my name; Procrastination is my game. I’m a professional.
Days passed. Weeks passed. I knew it was back there, but…I’ll bring it in later. Until riots started breaking out over toilet paper! I jokingly said to Justin, “my car’s going to get broken into if I keep driving around with that package of toilet paper in my van!” He then gave me an ultimatum: bring the toilet paper inside, or start carrying a gun. Since I’ve never even shot a gun, I decided it would probably be safer for everyone if I just brought the toilet paper inside. Justin took one look at my 18 roll mega pack and said, “that’s it?! That’s all we have?!” Um, yes? A roll lasts probably a week (I’ve never actually paid attention to how long they last, but I feel like I only shout, “who-finished-the-toilet-paper-and-didn’t-replace-the-roll,” right around once a week.
Ok, back to Monday’s Commissary Shopping Extravaganza. Upon entering the store, I gasped at the overwhelming amount of produce! Yes! And even more amazing: they had toilet paper!!! I debated whether or not I should grab one, and decided to come back to it if I was under my 30 item limit by the end.
Of course, then I rounded the corner and realized there was no meat. It seems the only thing that scares people more than not being able to wipe their butt, is becoming vegan. Meanwhile, vegans everywhere are dancing around the fully-stocked produce section singing Captain Vegetable, and praising themselves for their life choices. I’m not judging–I have spent the last week kicking myself for not starting my vegetable garden in February like a good Alabama Hippie (does Alabama have hippies? Am I the only one? If we weren’t all trying to stay away from one another, I could probably start a support group for Bleeding Heart Liberal Hippies in Alabama…although I’d probably be the only person in the group).
Where am I? What’s happening? Oh yeah–lots of toilet paper; no meat. Moving on.
My 30 items ended up being VEGETABLES (so many vegetables), tomato sauce, milk, cheese, juice, and ice cream (the most essential item in any quarantine situation). Oh, what the heck, let’s get another package of toilet paper (it was a real “treat yo’self” moment).
Of course, then I spot the couple that had been walking around the store with twice the legal limit of paper products, in front of me at self-check out. The commissary has limited shoppers to 3 packages.
For those of you who are not military-affiliated, or have never had the joy of shopping at the commissary, they’re quite strict about shopping. I have to swipe my card at the kiosk, and show it to the cashier wandering around the self-checkout area. Somehow this couple managed to get past that, because wifey dug through her purse for 2 minutes and then whispered across to her husband, “honey, I can’t find my ID. Can I use yours??”
You’re already breaking the 3 package limit, by pretending to be unrelated, but now you’re going to break ID law?! And get away with it?! I have done commissary trips with both my Mom, and my Mother-in-Law, where, doing the mom thing, they have tried to pay for my groceries and gotten yelled at by the cashier. I believe my MIL was even told she couldn’t hand ME cash for me to then give the cashier (it’s cool–the drug deal just had to go down in the parking lot. Moms are resilient…and defiant).
If you hoard toilet paper, I will judge you. You have been warned.
Now we can skip ahead to Wednesday’s grocery trip. I hoped that Aldi would be spared from the madness, and for the most part, I was right! Except….the meat. I know, I know, we can survive without animal protein. But try telling Justin that. Are you willing to be there for him while he cries over a plate of beans and rice? I can’t handle that much drama in my life right now, ok?
The meat wasn’t entirely sold out–corned beef filled a shelf (thanks, I’ll take 2), and there were a whole 5 packages of chicken thighs. I’m not selfish or greedy, and even though I have a family to feed, I took one (the sign said I could take up to 6 of each type of meat. See what I did there? I thought about others–come on, give it a try). I then continued my shopping trip, stocking up on more than I would normally buy, but, in my defense, I’ve been playing the 30 Items or Less game since the start of 2020, trying to decrease the amount of food in my pantry. Foolish me, but who thought we would end up here??
I finish shopping, go through the checkout aisle (Ok, quick question, entirely off-topic? Are neck beards the new soul patch?? Because the cashier always has a clean-shaven face…but from his jaw line down, he’s got crazy beard things happening. I don’t know if maybe I’ve spent too much time social-distancing and am completely out of the loop? Or is he just a unique individual who refuses to conform to social norms), and spend the next 15 minutes trying to teach my children the proper way to pack a grocery bag (It’s like a beautiful puzzle of cans and potato chips–preferably not in the same bag). While we’re playing this portion of Life Lessons Brought to You by Pandemic, the gentleman behind me (an adorable old German–or Austrian man, somewhere around the age of 127), asks NeckBeard how he takes his coffee. “I am going to Dunkin’ Donuts after this, and I would like to buy you a cup of coffee.” And now my heart is melting from the overwhelming kindness I have now experienced on a Wednesday.
And then….I get to the parking lot. While I’m putting my groceries in the van, I watch an older southern lady make her way across the parking lot to the kind little old man and ask for his cart. She tries to hand him a quarter, and he refused it: “please, just take the cart. I do not need your quarter.” She then says, “us old-timers, we’ll get through this. We know how to survive in hard times. Not like them, “and then she pointed at me!!!” I looked straight at her and laughed: “HAHAHA.”
As I stated earlier, if you panic-hoard toilet paper, I will judge you. If you judge me for the amount of food I purchase to feed my family, I will do my best not to slap you. There are 40 extra hours a week that my pre-teens will be “starving!” I have to plan accordingly. Yes, this looks like a ridiculous cheese hoard, but it’ll most likely be gone by Monday.
Deep breath, Sammi. Focus on the kindness.
Justin worked late–his schedule this week is right around 38 hours at work, and 10 hours at home. This is not Covid-19 related–this is just how his job is sometimes. We sat down to eat dinner, and I told him about the meat options.
“Did you buy all the corned beef??” “No–they limited you to 6 packages.” “So you got six packages of corned beef?!” “No–I got 2.” “Ugh!!! Why didn’t you get six!?” “Gosh, I don’t know Justin. I figured we both don’t need to have hypertension.”
I was tempted to supplement our animal protein with eggs…but then I remembered that Cadbury Creme Eggs don’t count. And I feel like there would be a serious increase in Justin’s Pandemic Judgement if I told him I bought Aldi out of eggs. “Sammi, what eggs? There’s only one carton of eggs in here.” “No-no. I ran out of space in the fridge, so I put them in the freezer.” “You can’t freeze….oh Sammi………no!”
Gosh, now I want to go back to Aldi and buy all of their Cadbury Creme Eggs–that’s not a Pandemic Panic Purchase…that’s just Thursday.
These are strange times, indeed. The uncertainty of it all is what makes it seem so…overwhelming? Scary? A third option?
Sunday night I realized that I had better message my PCM and let her know I was getting close to running out of my blood pressure double cocktail. I also asked that, in light of the extra safety measures put in place at the hospital, could they please (please) send my prescriptions to either the refill pharmacy, or any pharmacy that doesn’t require me to go to large military hospital. When I received my notification phone call, the nurse (who also took my stitches out of my forehead a year ago–thanks Mr E) thanked me for trying to be proactive, but they were not allowed to send prescriptions anywhere. I tried, and I was unsuccessful.
Today I decided that the longer I put it off, the worse it would be. After asking Justin if there was any way I could drop our maybe-not-so-tiny-anymore humans off to him (and learning that, no, he was still somewhere in the woods, in Georgia, playing dress up with face-paint and all), I did some searching, took a deep breath and accepted that my kids were old enough to be left alone (in Alabama, as soon as you can say “y’all,” you’re old enough; the army says 9-12 year olds can be home alone for up to 2 hours). I set out the rules–do not go outside, and no shenanigans. Xander was even able to repeat them back to me (which you might think is a weird thing to say about a 9 year old, but this is the same kid that usually, when asked to repeat back what we said to him, replies with, “I don’t know…words??”).
I would share a photo of the pre-hospital-entry portion of this adventure, but it’s probably not allowed…or it’s probably something I don’t want to risk getting in trouble for. I really just don’t like to get in trouble. Sammi Steeves, Rule Follower!
I followed the signs pointing the way, and reminding me that if I had a cough, fever, or had been out of the country or in contact with a sick human, I would not be allowed access to the hospital. I’m not really sure how to feel about that final statement. If hospitals are for sick people, and they aren’t allowing the sick people in, where are they going? I hope I just misread the signs, or skipped a section. I hope?
So far, nothing new or different has happened, other than I was able to find parking on the first level of the parking garage! I locate a table saying “Pharmacy Check-In,” and head over, ID card in hand. I’m all smiles and sunshine, because I know this is a weird time, and no one wants to be the guy out front. After asking the same questions listed on the multiple signs I passed on my 5oft walk from the parking garage to the table, he asks, “would you like to come back at 1100? Or 1600? To pick up your prescriptions car-side?” Goodbye smile; hello angry eyes.
“Are you serious? I called and messaged my provider, and asked if there was any way I could get my prescriptions without entering the hospital. And now, after driving 30 minutes to get here, you’re telling me I have to come back at either 11 or 4?!” He said I could still pick them up if I wanted to take my chances going into the hospital. No, buddy, I don’t want to go into the hospital. But I also don’t want to drive home, just so I can turn around an come back in an hour.
I make my way to the entrance. Where I am stopped by another soldier. “Ma’am, the main hospital entrance is closed.” I do a full turn, and say, “so, how am I supposed to get to the pharmacy?” Oh! I see–through the giant army tent tunnel set up. I wash my hands at the hand washing station, say hello to the CPT across from me, and then we make our way toward the tent–where I managed to get yelled at for not leaving 6 feet between me and the CPT. I’m being yelled at by a soldier standing 2 feet from me: “Ma’am! You need to maintain 6ft between you and the person in front of you!” I might have burst out laughing.
Once inside the Tent of Uncertainty, a medic asked me the same questions I had already been asked–twice. I asked him if he was having fun: “well, I’m standing outside in an army tent, taking temperatures.” As he was taking my temperature he said, “honestly, my usual job is way more stressful.” Well, now I want details.
But there’s no time for details, because I now have a fancy green wristband stamped 18March2020, and I get to finish my walk of awkwardness through the tent. Which was surprisingly spacious on the inside.
Every other seat in the waiting area has a SOCIAL DISTANCING DO NOT USE sign taped to it…but of course the seats are back-to-back, so I could just lean over and rest my head on the person behind me, if anyone chose to sit there. Normally the wait can be hours, but I had ticket 135, and they were on 127. This never happens!
Everyone is keeping their distance and keeping to themselves. And then I hear, “excuse me? Can you help me?” Behind me is standing a little Ajumma. “I don’t know what I am doing. My husband always does this for me, and I’ve never picked up my prescriptions before! Can you help me?” Only if you can give me your recipe for kimchi.
I walked her through it. “Do you have your ID? Scan this barcode, not other one. Is that your information on the screen? Touch the confirm button.” Of course the next step could be confusing for anyone, because you have to choose your category. It’s the Choose Your Own Adventure portion of all prescription pickups. Asking a question, Soldier in Uniform, Same-day surgery, 3 other weirdly-worded categories that I know probably pertain to no one, and finally, All other beneficiaries. I told her that was her category. Then, being that she’s Korean and adorable, she thanked me 572 times, and started to walk away. “Ma’am! Don’t forget to take your number!”
“Now serving B128,” and Ajumma hops up and says, “oh, that’s me! That’s my number!” I asked if I could check her paper, and told her she was one-thirty-eight, and they had called 128.
I don’t know why her husband was unable to come with her today, but I can guess it had something to do with his health. Did I have to break the 6 foot spacing rule in order to assist her? You bet I did. Did she get to go home and tell her husband she was able to fill her prescriptions without his assistance? Probably! Did I get her to write down all of her Korean recipes? No! I should’ve held her number hostage until she told me the secret to making perfect dumplings!
In the end, I made it home in less than 2 hours. My children had stayed inside, and hadn’t gotten caught up in any shenanigans. So we all got in the car and went grocery shopping…which was much less frenzy-filled than I expected it to be!
It’s been a crazy few weeks, especially at work. I haven’t been able to work out my typical 5-7 days a week. Instead, it’s been more like once or twice a week, if I’m lucky. And by lucky, I mean, if Justin is around on weekends to watch the kids so I can go for a super slow run. I am so, so slow.
I also have to add that nothing about me has changed. I haven’t gained 100lbs, or something weird like that. If anything, I’ve probably lost a little weight, simply from an increase in stress, and a decrease in time to eat (well, ok. I did have ice cream for lunch one day last week. Don’t judge me).
Yesterday, while running up and down stairs to the office I currently occupy, I was called over to the side of the pool by a woman who comes in and does water aerobics nearly every day. I thought for sure she was going to make a comment about me only teaching once this past week. Boy, was I mistaken:
“Sam! Are your pants too small?”
Um…I’m slightly confused, but don’t worry, it’s about to get so much better.
“I’ve never seen you with a belly!”
I pull the waist of my workout pants up, tucking my gut, and the extra skin riddled with stretch marks, back into the confines of the spandex (for the record, it was well hidden under my shirt). “Oh, I’ve always had a belly. I just hide it well.”
“Well, I’ve never noticed you having a belly before! You came down the stairs, and I thought, ‘oh my gosh, is she pregnant?!'”
Excuse me, what?! “Oh, no no no. No more babies for me. I’m done having babies.” I smile and walk away, sucking in my gut the entire way back up the stairs.
Did that just happen?!
When I told a co-worker about what was just said, he nearly spit his drink out as he burst out laughing. “It’s not funny,” he responded, “but, I mean, it kind of is.”
This woman is notorious for being nasty to the lifeguards. In fact, there are quite a few senior women who feel as though they are allowed to be disrespectful, simply because the lifeguards are young. Normally, I am not the one on the receiving end of their nasty attacks–obviously because I’m old. Or at least much older than the average lifeguard. I am constantly telling the kids working, “they would be horrified if any of you spoke to them they way they speak to you.”
Has no one taught them manners?! Or have they decided that they’re too cool–or perhaps too old–for manners. These women complain frequently about disrespectful millennials. Yet, they can saunter over to me with a grouchy face and say, “excuse me? Whose music is this?? Do you realize we are old?? Can’t you put it on Golden Oldies, or something like that?!” My response was, “of course I can!” But as I walk away to put something else on, I think, “‘C’mon N’ Ride It (The Train)’ is over 20 years old. It’s older than most of the lifeguards!” Who in the world walks into an exercise class and immediately complains about the music!?
Perhaps these women have just been catered too for entirely too long. Or they have too much time on their hands. Or NO ONE EVER TAUGHT THEM MANNERS!
I suggest we spend a week speaking to them the way they speak to us. The complaints we would receive wouldn’t be worth it. But where can we send our complaints about nasty patrons??
The girl guarding during my interaction with little miss “are you pregnant,” later said to me, “What the fuck was that about!? You handled that so well, cuz I probably would’ve kicked her in the face!” Dang, why didn’t I think to kick her!? Her face was perfectly located at foot level. But, alas. My momma taught me manners. She also taught me to kill them with kindness.
So, it’s fine. It’s whatever. I’ll keep my “I carried 2 babies” belly safely hidden behind the confines of some good quality spandex. And I’ll keep smiling and saying, “good morning,” while I think, “what a bratty old hag.”
I used to be skinny. Didn’t we all? Society says we all should be, right? All women should be a size nothing, with a thigh gap.
Until you are, and then people think it’s ok to say things about your too-small size.
What I wouldn’t GIVE to be skinny now like I was 15 years ago. Even 10 years ago. I mean, I wouldn’t give up my ice cream. Or most foods. Ok, I love food, and if you tell me I have to give it up to be skinny again, I’ll have to take a pass.
When I WAS 115lbs, at 5’8, people saw nothing wrong with making comments about my being too skinny. Asking questions like, “do you ever eat?” Some would wait until I left the room and then would ask my friends if I was anorexic, and heaven forbid if I went to the bathroom after eating, because obviously I must have been making myself throw up.
Why is it so hard to accept that some people are justtwigs?
I had some pretty awesome friends back in the day, and I earned some ironic nicknames: Shamu, Fat Chick, Chubby Fat-Ass. These names were given in response to the ridiculous questions people would ask my friends. Like, “does she eat? Does she have an eating disorder?” The people I was close to knew these questions drove me crazy! I was self-conscious enough about my bone-protruding figure. Their responses would be something along the lines of, “that fat chick? What are you talking about!? She’s HUGE!” I always appreciated the people in my life who stood up to the skinny-shaming in my defense.
Of course now Justin smiles and says, “oh Bubba,” when I throw my Fat Chick sweatshirt on. Not because I AM fat (he’d say otherwise. Because he loves me. He has the self-esteem of a 14-year-old girl, so he can’t say anything), but I’m certainly not the underweight waif I once was.
I’m writing this in honor of a young friend of mine. We work out together. She has the elusive thigh gap, and she’s somewhere in the most desirable size 0-2 range. And she hates it. HATES it.
I can’t take myself seriously.
Let me take you back in time, to the summer of 2015. I had just been hired on as a lifeguard, after my 6 year hiatus from aquatics. Starting back at the bottom. Easily 12+ years older than everyone. And here was this super skinny girl with a bubbly personality, who laughed at everything, and was obviously liked by everyone. I immediately thought, “if only 18-22 year old me had that confidence and was happy with her size. This girl knows what she has.”
Come to find out, she doesn’t. Protein shakes, cheeseburgers, and lifting, all in an attempt to gain weight and shrink her thigh gap.
Shrink her thigh gap?!?! Is she crazy?!?!
In the time that I’ve gotten to know her, I realized she is equally the self-conscious skinny girl I once was.
If it isn’t ok to walk up to a person who is overweight and say, “damn, you’re huge,” why is it ok to say to a skinny girl, “do you ever eat?” Or “you look like you just escaped a concentration camp,” or “where’s your butt?” These people aren’t funny, and they aren’t friends. It is not ok to make fun of anyone, but don’t for one second think that skinny equals happy. We all have our own self-esteem monsters we’re fighting.
Her frustration is not lost on me. I know all too well the way people talk. Is it jealousy, or envy, or do they honestly think it’s funny? We are told every day that we, as women, should be no bigger than a model size 6, and anything larger is “overweight.” So, why tease the girl who indeed IS the “proper size?”
Every time she complains (probably because she’s sick of the “too skinny” comments), and says, “I WISH I could gain weight!” I warn her-be careful what you wish for, because someday you’ll be in your 30s, and you’ll weigh 50lbs more than you did at 22. And you’ll wish you could just drop 20lbs without giving up your ice cream (this is by far, the most important stipulation to any serious diet and exercise plan–do I get to keep my ice cream). And you’ll think, “I wish I had been less self-conscious then.” Telling her these things is my way of telling 20-something me to be happy and comfortable being skinny.
Everyone, every day, should wake up and look in the mirror and focus on the positives! If we could just stop wishing we could be something else. You’re fabulous, whether you need to lay off the ice cream, or enjoy another pint.
