Ten people asked me today, "How are you?" Did you ever notice how many states are uncomfortable? And I’m not talking Abalama. But seriously, how often is the answer to the "How are you?" question, “Comfortable”. How about itchy, sore, nervous, anxious, annoyed, hungry, full, hot, cold, tepid, bored, horny. Because if you were comfortable you wouldn't have need of so many other words to describe your state. In conversation, I find it best not to go down the road of truth if you don't enjoy the podium.* So "Fine" is the only strategically prudent answer.
In truth, I haven't been myself lately. Unless myself is a depressed malcontent. In which case, I've been the same as usual. No one really wants to know the truth anyway.
Why is it that human interactions so rarely go well for me. Embarrassment, miscommunication, being taken advantage of, missed opportunity, infinite boring tangents, unsolicited lecturing. These are many of the most likely outcomes of almost any interaction-- even the most trivial interactions with people I've never met and will never see again. It seems to me. Am I right? I'm always tempted to think I don't belong in public. I have been told I'm reserved. Could that be the problem?
Not like the public space is lacking anything on my account. Although mask requirements (and even mask suggestions) are being lifted across the country and our president has declared the COVID crisis over, I'm still wearing a mask in public. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have pegged me for the type. 'He's too self-conscious,' I would have thought. 'He'd rather not stick out.' Outside of major metropolitan areas (also known as germ incubators) I'm in fact more inclined to go with the flow which seems to be an embrace of masklessness, but on my own turf (a major metropolitan area) I surprise myself by not giving a fuck what other people think. I fantasize about what I would say if I were bullied by some strange asshole who decided to be offended enough by my precaution to openly challenge me on mask-wearing. I like the idea of pulling down the mask, violently hacking in his face, and then politely explaining, "I have ebola."
You see, Jayden (for that's the name of the out-of-towner who confronts me about mask wearing in my fantasy), I don't wear a mask for political reasons. I'm not a fan of performative gestures and that includes performative mask wearing to demonstrate your contempt for Trump as well as performative non-mask wearing to demonstrate your contempt for public health officials (and I'm no great fan of either).
True, I barely wear it for health reasons anymore anyway. As it happens I discovered a comfort level, a commitment to the bubble in wearing a mask. And part of the comfort is an absence of a need to explain it to anyone. Least of all Jayden. People do suck. How can they not see that. If only they could see what I see they would realize that, the motherfuckers. If people only knew what dumasses they were being, Twitter would be a very quiet place. The world would be beautiful. And if people knew who to thank for suddenly being able to see their own dumassery you and I would get the thanks and appreciation we deserve.
I miss quarantine. So maybe mask wearing for me is just one of my many out of date fashions.
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Post Script: I wrote this a while ago. In the interim, a sore throat that had been bothering me for a few days prompted me to test myself for COVID. Mask wearer though I am, I tested positive. Trust me, if a masked vaxed hermit can get COVID when the COVID crisis is over, anyone can.
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* On the other hand, complaint is the stuff of inspiration for a compulsive blogger who has forced a monthly quota on himself. Apologies.
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