One year ago, today, that’s when the shit-show hit close to home.
The pandemic’s epic insanity began earlier in the year, but I was insulated in a “behind the screen” fashion. I witnessed the goings-on from a very comfy, disconnected quasi-apathetic perspective.
Then they canceled Dodger games and a small trip to Albertsons after work turned into a mad scramble for socialist-level toilet paper and dried beans.
A line longer than any I’d ever seen at the Long Beach sorta “hoodish” store and people rushing up and down aisles with looks of frantic Armageddon in their eyes.
Then Disneyland closed and everything started caving in at work and we were told we would be working from home until further notice.
My laptop was not prepped on Friday (the scramble was palpable; this must be what it’s like to button up the hatches before a hurricane), and that night, one more chaotic trip to Trader Joe’s and barren shelves and the weekend was full of doom and the impending threat of mysterious viral particles.
One year ago. March 16, 2020.
I brought my office home that Monday afternoon. I assumed I’d be returning to work in a few months, tops. This was a temporary sojourn off the beaten workday pattern for the safety of my health and the integrity of society. Some claimed it was the flu but I accepted it was more.
One month became two, became five, became…1 year.
Easter became a laughing stock.
A few months here, a year there. Fifteen days to slow the spread became 1 year to count the corpses.
How little we knew. Looking back at myself, ourselves, we were so quaint. We’ve changed.