Today was the abrupt end of a four-day road trip with my Irish twin through seven (or more) states and back. Like the Apollo 13 mission, our trek missed the moon, but we got home safely. Unlike the Apollo 13 mission, over the 1375 miles we sang medleys of old musicals (like “I sure am feeling sorry for the pony”) and theme songs from 1970s sitcoms (“people let me tell ya’ ’bout my best friend,” for example, and “do doot do doot do doooo, doot do do doot do doooo do” from M*A*S*H); we laughed hysterically until she was red of face and unable to breathe; we ate pretzel rods and oatmeal and Whoppers; and we did not hydrate, digest, or sleep well. We rode the last 687 miles in masks to protect each other. We classified a thousand drivers by one nice name or one not nice name. We avoided many wrecks and speed traps. We discovered the express lane. And when we arrived back at the starting point, a really nice guy brought us groceries. If the two of us ever go to the actual moon, we’ll probably do most of these things on the trip (and that nice guy will greet us on our return).
I’m processing complex emotions tonight and I’m too spent to line them all up against the wall and march them into paragraphs. Recently this blockage of verbal sharing has been labeled my “filter.” Sometimes it’s intentional. Tonight I’m stymied. I’m stifled. I’m stuck in a loop of worry. Instead of more random thoughts, how about I’ll just share numbers? It’s Tuesday. That’s what you came here for anyway.
One hundred weeks of pandemic
This is the 100th week since COVID-19 found its golden host in the US. We reached the 50 million total case mark and 800,000 deaths on this hellish week, with the virus keeping its steady pace of attacking 120,000 humans per day. Seems to give new meaning to the old saying “No news is good news.”