A Life Contained
Working, gardening, and processing from my postage stamp in Northern Virginia
This week marked eight weeks since my job became 100 percent remote. That’s 56 days, 1,344 hours, and two month’s worth of hives since I stopped looking forward to my next vacation and started looking forward to the next trip to the grocery store.
Friday, March 13th
It’s the last day in the office. No one wears masks, we don’t stand six feet apart. We don’t even know what social distancing really means. But we have been washing our hands emphatically.
Leaving the office — my second monitor, wireless keyboard, and trackpad pressed to my chest — I decide to avoid Metro in favor of an Uber. I can feel the warmth of the early spring on my skin, a cut of cool breeze cast off the Potomac.
“I just want to protect myself, so I can do my job,” says my Uber driver, who can’t find hand sanitizer for purchase anywhere.
The toilet-paper hoarding has only just begun.
