There is this meme floating around that says —

Now that I’ve lived during a plague, I get why most renaissance paintings are of chubby women laying around with their boobs out.

Every time I read that I think, “God, I would love for someone to see my boobs right now.”

I told a friend about this over coffee (no hugging, 6ft apart). The meme sparked a conversation about the hunger, the loneliness, the past year. Eventually she said, “I wish I would have treasured being alone more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m having sex now but there is a lot about being alone that I miss.”

I want to be better at treasuring it. More treasuring, less worrying about my boobs.

I’m trying to treasure:

That I get to lay diagonally in my bed. I can fall asleep to Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows (Part II, not I — because I can’t watch Dobby die).

I can put on that Kesha song, full blast, while I’m taking a shower and not be embarrassed that I don’t listen to ska or something.

I can shove peanut butter m&ms in my face all day long and not have to worry about if I’ve spoiled my dinner because we promised to sit down for meals together.

I get up early in the mornings and journal and play The National—not having to worry that I’ll wake anyone.

I can keep my headphones in all day—while I am working, writing, cleaning, and not have to wonder if I am being rude, or disengaged, or not holding space for someone.

I can pick the butter I want with olive oil and salt because I don’t have to share. I cut all of my vegetables up and put them in glassware. I put half of my loaf of bread in the freezer because it's just me — in this moment I will wish that there was someone to see that I am a person who chops my vegetables and puts them in glassware. I am responsible! Do you see how I freeze half of my bread?

Today I texted with a friend for the first time since the pandemic hit. She recently had a baby.

I asked for pictures of the baby and stories about him but I also talked about how I want someone to see my boobs.

She said, “I’m just waiting for the day that my boobs don’t have to be out constantly.”

I’m going to treasure that my mortgage payment will come in a couple of days and I won’t blink an eye when its drafted from my bank account. I get a twisted thrill every time it happens.

I’m going to treasure this for as long as I can which will probably be until later today. Until I get a video of my cousin and her husband doing Zumba together—while I’m picking up Yuna’s shit on our evening walk and screaming, “God, I’m sorry,” when she tries to fight teeny dogs.

There is a woman who Yuna and I pass every morning as she’s power walking with her three kids.

The woman is always moving and talking fast. She will ask me if I need anything—I don’t even know her name. Her kids say hello to Yuna while she lifts her leg to pee on things—because she’s decided she’s a boy, I guess.

Later in the afternoon, Yuna and I will walk by their house. They will be playing four square in the driveway—her husband will be out there too. They look like an Old Navy commercial. I think that looks nice and simple. It makes me question my treasure.

In the evenings, I see her walking alone. I watch her from my living room window. She’s usually on a RAGE phone call. I imagine its probably her sister and she’s yelling about her husband and how he sucks at foursquare. I want to raise my coffee mug to her out of solidarity. I want to ask, “Do I look lonely? Or, does this look nice and simple? Does it look like treasure?”

I wish there was someone to play a game with. I wish there was someone to work out next to. I wish there was someone to read aloud to. I wish there was someone else in the shower with me. I wish my sheets were wrecked.

But this is good too.

a list-making nightmare.