I recently got COVID handed down to me by my daughter. I don’t blame her. I blame, well, I don’t know who to blame. It just is what it is. After 3 days of feeling like someone placed a burning rock in the back of my throat, a positive test result confirmed what I already knew. With an upcoming vacation that my husband and I were determined to not miss, I was banished to my room to wait out a 10-day-from-onset-of-symptoms isolation in hopes that he wouldn’t get it. I felt like a leper, an untouchable. Hoping that the dog gets fed and the dishes get washed, I’m twiddling my thumbs with West Wing on repeat. By end of day 2 of isolation, I was starting to turn the corner of symptoms. Day 2. What do I do to pass the time? West Wing, iPhone games, and magazines aren’t piquing my interest anymore. I’m just plain bored.
Looking out my windows, my only access to the outside world, I start to daydream what Day 11 is going to be like. I’m going to bust out of here that a flying superhero about to save the day. Hopefully this pent up energy will get me back to my January goal of closing my exercise rings every day. No one told my Apple watch that I got COVID, so it’s been yelling at me everyday. It’s even resorted to giving me pep talks to at least achieve my stand goal. Sorry, watch, I’m just a lazy loser living out my days in pajamas and Netflix.
