THERE has been a lot of talk about what everyone will "do first". By which they mean the exhilarating act of freedom that is top of the list for when lockdown winds down and the coronavirus restrictions are eventually eased (still a tiny dot on the horizon at this point).
Pubs crawls, brunching, football games, live gigs and jumping in the nearest swimming pool are among those I have heard reeled off. While all of that sounds very nice (and much needed to blow away the cobwebs) it has struck me that I'm not in any rush to do anything per se.
I'm enjoying the slower pace. Occasionally a random thought (call it a craving for the "old normal") will pop into my head – eating a taco in my favourite Mexican restaurant, tackling an Escape Room with friends – but mostly it is fleeting.
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It isn't so much that I'm crippled by inertia, but rather my mindset has altered. What I want from life has changed. There has been a burst of epiphanies in my head like exploding supernovas.
Even so, in recent weeks, I have noticed subtle little tweaks in my behaviour. A preparedness is under way. On some level, I am getting ready for a "new normal" – whatever that may entail.
I've been devoutly clearing out cupboards and boxes, sifting and curating, making piles in the garage for the charity shop, dump and upcycling projects. Out with the old. I have even started wearing a bra around the house again like a Victorian lady in corset training.
The other day I threw open the wardrobe doors and eyed the smart dresses hanging inside, surveying them like an ageing athlete contemplating a comeback to top-flight competition. Albeit in this case, less George Foreman, more Sylvester Stallone in Rocky Balboa.
To that end, the next four months or so should be a movie montage of me trying to get back in shape – powerwalking round the neighbourhood with a puce face, weaning myself off elasticated waistbands, getting my lockdown locks tamed – before facing the outside world again.
But there are many things I don't think I will do again. I have always been a hugger. But I don't think I will be a hugger anymore. I know that Boris Johnson is obsessed – bordering on fanatic – about the prospect of being able to shake people's hands again. Me? I'm struggling to see the appeal.
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I have mastered an all-purpose nod that can convey hello, nice to meet you, keep your distance, please sit down, here's a coffee, thanks for popping by and farewell. Well, more or less, I think. The proof will be in the pudding when we all get back out there.
I miss spontaneity. Being able to smile at someone without a mask on. A day without looking at graphs and charts and mathematical modelling. In time, all of that will come. For now, I am content with plodding slowly and cautiously towards that tiny distant dot.
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