I think we are all finding out things about how we cope, how we share, how we panic and how we live.
"Trapped" in our homes, we find comfort and safety and bliss at the same time that we chafe at the restrictions.
The opportunity to choose where we go and when we go, along with who and how many we can go with, is a precious thing.
We realize that just walking out the door is something to cherish.
The air outside is crisper, fresher and sweeter.
The paths we walk are new.
There's much to be learned here and I get that.
But there's some stuff that is incomprehensible: the hoarding, for instance.
My son told me a story of a lady who grabbed all of the hot dogs on the newly delivered pallet, 100 packages. When he asked if she really needed 100 packages of hot dogs, she retorted, "My family likes hot dogs!"
As Marc shopped the grocery store during senior hours, he watched a customer grab not one or two, but four large jars of pizza sauce. Does she need four when the sign says "Please only take two?"
Probably.
(Maybe she makes pizza four times a week.)
I won't even go into the toilet paper sweep up or the list of unavailable items that gets longer each hour, a list that includes a wide variety of now unattainable items beyond soap, diapers and disinfectant.
But the delivery guys who didn't want to bring my daughter's new fridge up the steps and into the kitchen were unrealistic.
Is she or her husband supposed to be able to move the new fridge themselves? Would bringing it just as far as the garage be enough?
And the plumber who was asked to come out to fix a toilet and then told by an anxious homeowner that he had to stay out of the house. Is he supposed to work by remote control?
Those kinds of things mystify me.
I think our fear is messing with our minds.
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