Last Sunday afternoon, as I aimlessly puttered around the house in my nightgown — not even in my pajamas — I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was taken aback by the sight of my totally out of shape hair and the frumpy gown I was wearing that was large enough to cover my recliner.
Here it was, a beautiful sunny day, and the least I could do would be to swap my gown for some nice pajamas, comb my hair and walk the few feet to my front porch and soak up some much-needed vitamin D.
But no, I kept the blinds closed and settled in for a few more hours of Netflix and BritBox.
I could think of no good reason why I should switch to pajamas because there would not be anyone knocking at my door.
As a matter of fact, there hasn’t been a knock at my door in a very long, long time.
The only people who have been in my house since quarantining began, except for myself, are my sons Jeff and Mickey and Mickey’s girlfriend Candace.
And they don’t knock because they both have keys.
At one time, before social distancing became the norm, when I ordered my groceries delivered from Publix, the Instacart person would bring the groceries into the kitchen.
The same was true for the DoorDash runners.
But in the last couple of months, I believe Instacart and DoorDash have hired ninja warriors as drivers.
My orders will be placed on my porch without the sound of a car door closing or the crunch of footsteps on the stairs and porch.
UPS drivers and our local postman no longer knock on the door.
Packages appear without warning.
The strange thing is I am becoming satisfied with this seclusion from the outside world and that worries me.
I feel safe in this nest that’s been created around me and I am in no hurry to open the door to let someone in or to let myself venture into the outside world.
I did brave the now-unfamiliar-to-me-world this week to get a much-needed styling for my shaggy white hair, and I was uncomfortable doing this.
I found myself taking very shallow breaths and when my operator was finished, I practically ran to the car.
For four days a week, I drive to my work and back — and nowhere else — and thank God every day that I have a job I love.
But during the hours after I return home and the long days of the weekend, I retreat to my safe place, knowing the world won’t come in.
I hope I don’t become too accustomed to a world where hugs aren’t allowed.
Right now, I’m a little too comfortable with it.