A Stay at Home Comedian on Coronavirus

Let’s begin with the cliché of the pandemic: “These are crazy times.” But don’t worry, you’ll be fine as long as you stay home, wash your hands, don’t touch your face. Wear gloves, use sleeves, disinfect everything, stay six feet apart. Stay safe. Stay calm. Stay positive, this will all be over in 2–18 months.

My days are busy. I self-quarantine, self soothe, and self stimulate. I have dinner with imaginary friends, and home school myself. I’m fifty but I have a lot to learn. I’m learning new languages, taking virtual tours of the world and studying to be a lawyer while I cook like a culinary artist and workout like a competitive athlete. Oh please. I do nothing and have less to talk about. I’m unmotivated, tired, and have no energy. Or am I sick? Truthfully this isn’t all much different from my regular life so it’s hard to tell. Except now I worry about elevator buttons, door knobs, steering wheels, keys. I don’t know how to structure my day. I sleep a lot then wake up to a nightmare. I feel like an infant. Am I hungry? Tired? Dirty? Is it time to eat? Nap? Cry? I’m so confused. I FaceTime 40 people in ten hours and wonder if this is normal or I’m too needy. I don’t shower. I can’t read. I dress like crap, eat like shit and worry about my cholesterol. I suffer through Trump, Apple News, Daily Mail, CNN, DJIA and hundreds of memes on Instagram. Arguing on Facebook is my new cardio.

All day long we are fed ridiculous and contradicting stories. They tell you don’t believe everything you read, stop watching the news, stay informed but don’t panic. Be careful where you get your information. Go to sources you can trust. Like for example someone sent me a article titled: “Scammers dressed in lab coats knocking on doors for ‘coronavirus testing.’” Oh this is wonderful. Knock knock. Who’s there? Fake Corona testing. Great. Then my father called and told me to buy a portable hair dryer (never heard of such a thing) and to blow dry my entire body before entering my apartment. Excellent idea. Then after I “blow myself” I can go inside and think: “Is it warm in here or do I have a fever?” Then I can take my temperature and when it’s normal assume the thermometer (since it’s old) is broken, then go on Amazon and find one that cost $123 and will take 3 months to 6 years to get here from China. No sooner do I tell this insanity to a friend who sends me another article titled: “These Coronavirus ‘cures’ are faker than a bad boob job.” Number one is blow drying yourself.

There are so many questions plaguing us. Will I get it? Probably. Will I die? Probably not. Do I already have it? Maybe. Have I unknowingly given it to others? Who knows. Will the world run out of Xanax? Toilet paper? Food? In that order. Do I buy stocks? Sell? Who’s the black guy with the big dick people keep sending me all day? Next article — that black guy was a gay pornstar and he’s dead. Sad, but moving on. Can I see my lover? Not clear. There was an article in the NY Post that said: “You are your safest sex partner,” then a few lines later it contradicted itself by saying “Having close contact– including sex — with a small circle of people helps prevent spreading COVID-19.” Umm, what is a “small circle?” So let me try to figure this out: They say to maintain social distancing, but having regular sex can keep you healthy, but keep six feet apart. So have sex but not in groups of ten or more? What are they saying? Who should we listen to? Dr Oz? Dr Phil? Dr Seuss? Also, can dogs get it? No, they can’t. Yes they can. No, yes, no, maybe. My dog sits under the bed most of the day anyway so at least he’s social distancing. And as soon as this disaster gets under control I will consider replacing him with a more social model. In the meantime we take long walks to nowhere and see no one. At night I binge watch violent shows and get ignited with enough adrenaline and anxiety to keep me wired until 4 a.m. while healthily ruminating about the future. Will there be a vaccine? A cure? A night out? Normalcy? Life has boiled down to a mishmosh of facts, fiction, fear, FaceTime; Fauda — the show and the definition of it.

The worst part is if you’re still healthy I feel there are a lot of expectations in regards to having so much free time, ie: living up to the lie I told in the first paragraph. I sense an obligation to emerge from this disaster if not smarter, than at least way more knowledgeable or accomplished. And I resent this. I feel like I’m supposed to graduate from quarantine 2020 with a publishable cookbook, a fully trained dog, pristine closets, and a degree in engineering. Or at least a moderate success rate at the annoying virtual contests I wish people would stop inviting me to engage in. Twenty-one-day booty challenge, 21 day happiness challenge, toilet paper challenge. I don’t need any more challenges. Trying not to touch the same spot on the bag that the delivery guy just handed me is hard enough, thanks. But at the same time what are we supposed to do? Rediscover yourself, they say. What I’ve rediscovered is that I’m too old to get pregnant but too young to die. My survival skills are crap and I should really at least learn how to color my own hair. I should have probably moved to a country that has a better grasp on things, but it’s too late now. At the minimum I’m going to start learning another language just so I can complain in a foreign accent. The bottom line is no one knows what’s going on or what will happen, so just live in the present, be smart and enjoy the memes. The last one I read pretty much sums it all up: “Tomorrow isn’t promised. Send nudes today.”

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Comedian and top writer in humor. Miami based. IG: @pamgaslow, pam@pamgaslow.com. Subscribe to my mailing list: https://upscri.be/fpacdo

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