"How's your commute going today," the message on Sarah's smart phone asks?
"What commute," she laughs?
But, of course, she commutes from job to job in her apartment and in her apartment building.
Her first commute today was made half asleep and puffy-faced in bedroom slippers and pajamas from her bed to her one- cup coffee maker. It's safer and less time-consuming than taking a cab, if one is available, to Dunkin', Starbucks, or McDonald's.
Then, Sarah travels to the dining room chair to read morning newspapers. This commute is less risky than going into the back yard garden to read newspapers. There, the heart- palpitating thought of breathing aerosols from others will stop her from dropping her mask to drink her coffee.
Awake now, she saunters to the refrigerator for food instead of hoofing it to the grocery store where people won't stay out of her six-foot space in the store or on the sidewalk.
She eats her breakfast in the dining room: fresh fruit, plain yogurt, and protein-enriched Special K. The meal, she hopes, will ward off Covid 19 more than a jelly doughnut, a bagel with cream cheese, or pancakes with syrup would.
Dropping the dishes in the sink, Sarah treks back to the dining table looking for online magazines to publish her stories. After hours of searching and submitting stories, she commutes back to the coffee maker to brew her second cup.
She looks down and at the kitchen trash can overflowing with wadded paper towels. She's soaped her hands and dried them on abrasive paper towels so many times, her skin looks like what you'd see on a rotisserie chicken.
The trash has to go to the trash room near the elevator IMMEDIATELY, she decides. Before she goes, Sarah breaks into a sweat, fearing, her neighbors may get into her six-foot space without masks as they leave their apartments or wait for the elevator
Before she goes, though, Sarah has to empty the shopping cart that she fills with trash and shuttles to the trash room. It's full of clean clothes, smelling of fresh air, the fragrance put in the detergent.
So, she shuffles to the shopping cart, empties the clothes on the bed, sorts, folds, and puts them away. This is safer than folding in the laundry room where you can't social distance and some people aren't wearing masks. Can you believe that?
Sarah loads the cart with plastic bags of trash. It's ready for the drive, but she isn't. She has to dress, put on goggles, plastic gloves, and a mask. She takes three deep breaths in anticipation of the risky trip.
Sarah has Cupitol Tunnel Syndrome in her left arm. It flashes a caution light of moderate pain, telling her not to drive the cart. She starts hyperventilating, thinking about the commute. Her mind, like a red light, flashes "don't proceed."
So instead, she emails her friends. Staying in touch with people is important during the pandemic, experts say. Sarah happily agrees.
"What commute," she laughs?
But, of course, she commutes from job to job in her apartment and in her apartment building.
Her first commute today was made half asleep and puffy-faced in bedroom slippers and pajamas from her bed to her one- cup coffee maker. It's safer and less time-consuming than taking a cab, if one is available, to Dunkin', Starbucks, or McDonald's.
Then, Sarah travels to the dining room chair to read morning newspapers. This commute is less risky than going into the back yard garden to read newspapers. There, the heart- palpitating thought of breathing aerosols from others will stop her from dropping her mask to drink her coffee.
Awake now, she saunters to the refrigerator for food instead of hoofing it to the grocery store where people won't stay out of her six-foot space in the store or on the sidewalk.
She eats her breakfast in the dining room: fresh fruit, plain yogurt, and protein-enriched Special K. The meal, she hopes, will ward off Covid 19 more than a jelly doughnut, a bagel with cream cheese, or pancakes with syrup would.
Dropping the dishes in the sink, Sarah treks back to the dining table looking for online magazines to publish her stories. After hours of searching and submitting stories, she commutes back to the coffee maker to brew her second cup.
She looks down and at the kitchen trash can overflowing with wadded paper towels. She's soaped her hands and dried them on abrasive paper towels so many times, her skin looks like what you'd see on a rotisserie chicken.
The trash has to go to the trash room near the elevator IMMEDIATELY, she decides. Before she goes, Sarah breaks into a sweat, fearing, her neighbors may get into her six-foot space without masks as they leave their apartments or wait for the elevator
Before she goes, though, Sarah has to empty the shopping cart that she fills with trash and shuttles to the trash room. It's full of clean clothes, smelling of fresh air, the fragrance put in the detergent.
So, she shuffles to the shopping cart, empties the clothes on the bed, sorts, folds, and puts them away. This is safer than folding in the laundry room where you can't social distance and some people aren't wearing masks. Can you believe that?
Sarah loads the cart with plastic bags of trash. It's ready for the drive, but she isn't. She has to dress, put on goggles, plastic gloves, and a mask. She takes three deep breaths in anticipation of the risky trip.
Sarah has Cupitol Tunnel Syndrome in her left arm. It flashes a caution light of moderate pain, telling her not to drive the cart. She starts hyperventilating, thinking about the commute. Her mind, like a red light, flashes "don't proceed."
So instead, she emails her friends. Staying in touch with people is important during the pandemic, experts say. Sarah happily agrees.
