Today, I was doing some online banking and scrolled down to my February purchase history. How strange to see all those little transactions. The salted chocolate chip cookie I bought at Platform 7 and ate while reading a book. The coffee I bought on the way to work, before my 10 am class. The glass of wine I bought when I saw Hannah Gadsby.
And those tiny grocery bills. We used to go nearly every day, and it was the highlight of my toddler’s day. I know it’s a privilege at the best of times to be able to buy a coffee without thinking about it. But I felt so sad, looking at all those brief, thoughtless little moments of pleasure. Driving to work, drinking my iced coffee, listening to podcasts. Wandering the aisles of stores.
I know the last thing I bought before sheltering in place: a bag of flavourless Baked Lays at the Subway in Columbia College’s lobby. I was there to give a session on OER. If I’d only known, I wouldn’t have wasted my last frivolous purchase on wallpaper-paste sadness crisps. After my session ended, I saw a text from my friend. She’d become very ill after going to a conference, and the news was reporting that the conference had a Coronavirus outbreak. We’d interacted with her.
I picked my toddler up at daycare, drove her to a specialist’s appointment (where we were exposed to Covid, I’d find out later), and came home knowing that my family was going into lockdown. That was March 11th. Exactly two months ago.
Right now, we’re caught in an anxious moment where rules are starting to be relaxed, but there’s also no end in sight and there are expected to be larger outbreaks. Some people seem to be treating it as business as usual, and others are worried that relaxing the rules will cause mass death. Either way, I just can’t imagine casually wandering the aisles of a store, popping into a coffee shop, sitting there with my laptop people-watching. I’ve been reading that they might never find a vaccine. Or, the vaccine will only give a slight protective advantage for some people.
I am lucky to still have a job. I can pay my bills and feed my family. And it feels indulgent to stew over wanting to walk the streets with an iced coffee in your hand. But every once in awhile you get the reminder that we are in this for the long haul, and nothing will be the same, and I think it’s okay to mourn for those little moments of pleasure.
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