I used to go to a place, touch people, and help them move around…but now those things are mostly crimes. I am a personal trainer in impersonal times. Or I was. I am out of a job, but it is more than that. I have a refined a skill set for a profession that will either move online, or be performed from social distance with due precaution. The idea of poking at my clients with a stick, while mouthing encouragement through the foggy window of a hazmat suit, is deeply unappealing. I may need to recalibrate.
I have time on my hands and a limited social calendar. I spend my days doing prison workouts with rusty weights. I sit on the floor and play x-box until the screen blurs and my hips cramp. Sometimes I write. A little. I have time but no attention. Every day is the same and the weeks are indistinct. The weather won’t change, but my hair keeps expanding so it must be spring. I am productive, sometimes, but it feels like nothing counts. Like this is a practice run, but I know I won’t get a real turn later.
Things are serious and people are dying. Not here, but somewhere. A lot of places. All I can feel is the strangeness. The antisocial geometry of walking down the street, like we are all playing tag but can’t tell who is IT. When I walk I find myself staring into people’s houses and hoping they look back. I haven’t pet a dog in weeks and I can’t see the end of it. We need to figure something out.