Spare Time

 So, the upside of having Covid (a phrase that only semi-professional optimists can use) seems to be the enforced nature of low-impact activity. For example, it was thanks to this energy-sucking disease that I found myself with just enough strength to let the entire first season of Abbott Elementary wash over me in a binge. A sitcom centered on the lives of teachers in an urban school was just the right connection to my real life and gave me the lack of strength to simply let the next episode roll on. Twelve seconds is not a very long time to make decisions when fully alive and alert, but the little countdown clock in the upper right hand corner of the screen just brought calm reassurance that I would be spending another twenty-four minutes of my convalescence safe in the warm glow of the protective rays of TV. 

Eventually, however, evolution forced me into an upright position, one that puts me on a path back to my desk, where the computer is waiting. Here I can give the illusion of being productive, even if it's just another level of Candy Crush Soda Saga. Or maybe some in-depth googling of this and that. For example, I was finally afforded the opportunity to click on that travel suggestion about taking a crayon with you in your wallet. It seemed like a big deal, since the link said "Always carry a crayon in your wallet." Always. After some preliminary confusion, it became clear that the primary reasons for sticking a Crayola in your wallet were 1) to keep your credit cards straight and safe, and 2) in case you found yourself in a foreign country with no rudimentary understanding of the language, you could take out your waxy implement and draw simple figures that you could point to asking "bathroom? coffee?" If I am ever allowed to leave the house again, these are watchwords for my future. Always. 

Speaking of leaving the house, I also found that there is a world of celebrity fun and adventure going on while I am busy waiting for my next ibuprofen. Ben and J-Lo got married in Las Vegas. That seemed like a big deal for a lot of people. Ripples from that were felt far and wide by people stuck behind their computers without the chance to trot off to Sin City to legitimize the romance of the decade. If that decade was two decades ago. Bravo, I say for living a life that can consume twenty years of tabloid journalism. Twenty years is a long time. Ten minutes is not. Ten minutes is the length of several private jet trips taken by Kylie Jenner. When you own a seventy million dollar private jet, why not use it? That forty-five minute drive becomes a seventeen minute hop from one corner of the LA basin to another. 

Baby, I'm not sick. That's sick. And not in a good way. 

Candy Crush doesn't make my head hurt.