A Canadian Quarantine — Day 13
Only 48 Hours
The English language is confusing and sometimes imprecise. Take the word “only”, for example. It can infer alone-ness, as “she was the only one left”; it can be used to express a missing element, such as “he was a terrific painter, if only he had some paint”. It can also infer relative size, as in “their quarantine was nearing its end, with only 48 hours to go”.
It’s hard to predict if the next two days will go quickly or will feel excruciatingly long. I imagine it’s something like driving at top speed along a straight highway. In the far distance, the road disappears into the mountain, with your destination slightly beyond. From a distance, the mountain doesn’t seem to move. An hour goes by, and the mountain remains stubbornly far away. There’s no need to ask, “Are we there yet?” The illusion lulls all the passengers into a nap. The driver presses on.
I remember the insane pace of my previous Silicon Valley work life. Back to back meetings, each one generating a new collection of action items with no time to actually start working on them. The day’s conference calls begin with colleagues nine or twelve time-zones ahead, and ends with one last look at the emails that piled up during the day. In the winter, the sun would have set and I may not have even noticed. Forty eight hours later, my todo list has grown like a metastatic cancer that radiology has been unable to touch. The passing of time is blurred.
Now, I work for myself and pick my own pace. I wasn’t sure what to expect of my 14 day quarantine, so I went “full vacation”, intent on mentally catching up. My strategy was to mentally shift gears by filling time with those “other things” — none of which include beloved walks in the fresh air. With the exception of the sound my keyboard makes, the only other sound in the morning right now is a clock in the other room, tick tocking the seconds. Only 172,800 to go.
Coming down off a stress-induced cortisol-filled raceway is startling. It’s a race without the endorphin high aftermath. No more fight, no more flight. Just tick tock tick tock are-we-there-yet-no-stop-asking.
Maybe a cappuccino will make the time pass painlessly, maybe not. At least making it will give my hands something to do for 485 seconds while drowning out that insanity-inducing clock in the other room…
