We’re all ordered to limit the time we spend in the outside world, and for me this imposed disposition is nothing new since I’ve been operating remotely for the past three years.
At first it was liberating to have the freedom to conduct my editorial calendar based on my preferences without the nagging presence of hovering micro-managers.
But within the last six months there’s been a major shift in the way I view the notion of being tucked away from the annoyance of sharing space with co-workers, who each present a unique form of communication skills, and problematic traits.
After spending most of my adult life as a resident in energetic hubs like New York City and Los Angeles, the initial embrace of a location with a much slower temperament finally wore off.
I made a new year’s resolution for the first time since I don’t know when, and the goal was to make a triumphant return back to the chilly bosom of my first love, in the hopes that our long separation would yield mutually beneficial rewards.
I even convinced myself to accept the bet of a long overdue makeover, that was supposed to include a snazzy haircut and the reignited affair with facials.
There was also the strong commitment to in-person meetings with recruiters and the old-fashioned method of networking in an effort to give my self-confidence a boost and the reassurance that I haven’t aged out of the system.
Obviously my ambitious schedule has come to a grinding halt, along with my morning regimen of hitting the treadmill without the drama of not being able to enter the gym because I drowsily forgot to read the “CLOSED” sign pasted on the door.
There will be no “boss moves” on the horizon or the level of interaction with human and career options that could lead to a refreshing detour away from stationary status.
The future is pointing towards the reality of staying put with the mandatory company of my parents, who are understandably psyched to be in the company of their one and only daughter and eldest child, who is readily providing the care they deserve.
Of course the selfish rebel in my head keeps banging out the reasons why my current isolation from the indulgence that was meant to raise my optimism from its flatline state should be torturously addressed.
It doesn’t help that we have the accessibility to the roots of all evil in the form of high-priced gadgets that open the door to temptations that are out of reach.
Blissful celebs who have struck gold with the indefinite hiatus that keeps them happily trapped in gorgeously-decked out fortresses, are publicly relying on dependable vibes of Instagram to taunt their less-fortunate and downright poor fans with images of casual opulence and videos that capture their giddiness.
It’s both interesting and quite educative to observe the stark disparities between the upper-class and the class that was helplessly spiraling way before Coronavirus became the pandemic of our lifetime.
Instagram is the dedicated documentarian that exposes the traitorousness of income inequality in the realm of how the lucky few are selected to gloriously accommodate this harrowing era, with the accompaniments of take-out dinner from famed Craig’s LA, and the backdrop of eye-popping scenery that solidifies why “staying home” is different for all of us.
I’m not a hater, and while I do harbor moments of intense resentment at the realization that I have to stay locked and unloaded in a modest space that doesn’t present the hiding places for survival mode, I would be an asshole if I didn’t recognize the privilege of a roof over my head, and the savings account that still registers.
My point is that while some well-meaning celebs who are usually acutely aware of their good fortune in ways that direct their messaging, ironically fail to maintain those standards when it matters most, the rest of us who are trying to stay alert and sane though this increasingly debilitating process, have to contend with the clear and present threats to our longterm financial security.
Not everyone is suffering immeasurable loss from the strain of being homebound.
Wealthy families can easily retreat to the exclusivity of The Hamptons to escape the buzzkill of crowded minions. And their counterparts in other locales can make good use of underused rooms in mansions that were built for these times.
We all live for extended vacays, but not when we can’t afford those luxuries.
Even those who are in decent shape in this so-called “booming economy” of historic proportions must be slightly worried about what to expect in the coming months.
Imagine how we feel, as law-abiding, tax-paying citizens, who were already struggling when everything was moving along nicely, and are now burdened with active items that leave us without the promise that we will emerge from this nightmare without embedded scars, and the infection that’s taking effect.
When you’re down on your luck, it doesn’t help matters when you’re suddenly at war with a menacing contagion, reducing the whole world to rubble with no cushion of protection against the ghastly elements that exaggerate troubled realities.
Remaining barricaded in tight surroundings without the outlet of a spirited companion who can provide warranted distractions can summon the need to be productive in ways that realign normal frequency.
For example, I recently had the urge to get rid of stale contacts that were clogging my iCloud.
But when nighttime strikes, I find myself cutting though the darkness with daggers of unleashed mourning for the exciting plans I had drafted for upcoming seasons, that have been dissolved by an out-of-control virus that shows no signs of slowing down.
I can’t tolerate the ill-advised videos of inebriated celebs, who are high enough to spread the funk of their misguided narratives like full-blooded youngsters who have adapted to the ritual of trending for all the wrong reasons.
They have youth on their side when it comes to being able to behave badly for the cameras, and still have the restored trust and allegiance of compromised brands.
But we grown adults can’t afford to blame ill-timed mishaps on a well-intentioned prank gone wrong.
Nobody cares about how you got to the top, as long as you manage to get there and sustain those heights.
People want to be around winners, not losers and that makes a lot of sense.
Except for the fact that getting older doesn’t discriminate, and some of us aren’t quite ready to handle the repercussions that stem from “staying home” without the backup plan that can’t be initiated when you have no idea what could transpire from one day to the next.
For all the positive vibes from well-adorned senders, who aren’t in bleak quarters, there’s also the section of imprisoned, anxiety-ridden members of society, who know everything is going to be alright for those who can purchase their happy ending.
It’s not that I prefer to be pessimistic, and I do have slices of euphoric simulation that wears off when I check my bank account and project the likelihood of extended famine.
When the dust settles, a lot of us who were teetering on the edge may be devastatingly displaced, and that’s the hard truth.
Staying indoors is Tik Tok time for those who aren’t weighed down by piling bills and stacked up job applications.
And I guess it’s just not the same outlook across the board, and we need to send that reminder.