I woke up early and checked my phone. No texts but three e-mails, from Old Navy, CVS, and the Biden campaign. Apparently, Joe was concerned not to have seen my survey responses to his last e-mail—did I forget? CVS apprised me of its home-delivery options. In these difficult and unprecedented times, Old Navy wanted me to know that all fleece is now fifty per cent off.
I finally put those old boxes I’ve been meaning to put out on the curb out on the curb, then wondered if I might need those old boxes after all—who knows when I might next be able to obtain boxes, free of fear or worry? So I dragged those old boxes from the curb and put them back where they were before.
I checked my Instagram account. Many pictures of spectacular bread. Fabulous soups. Amazing cupcakes. I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who has an Instagram account but doesn’t actually post anything, but I remember telling you that once and you saying, “Those are the worst kind of people.”
I texted you back. You texted me back. I was watching the daily task-force briefing; you were watching the daily task-force briefing. We texted about the daily task-force briefing for a while. I was drinking a margarita. I began to write a text in which I made fun of Dr. Birx’s scarves, then realized that I didn’t really want to start a whole text exchange in which we would make fun of Dr. Birx’s scarves, so I hit backspace until the text about Dr. Birx’s scarves was gone.
I made a point of not checking my e-mail for an entire morning, then went outside and halfheartedly raked leaves into a kitchen-trash bag, since we’re out of the tall paper ones that say things like “Yard of the Month!” or “Never Stop Improving!” on the side. It was O.K. for a while, but the whole time I kept imagining someone admiring me for raking leaves and not checking my e-mail, which of course didn’t happen, and which was a dumb thing to imagine in the first place. So I went inside and checked my e-mail. Barack wanted to know if I had got a chance to fill out Joe’s survey yet?
Yes, it was so nice to see you last night on Zoom! Right, we should do that more often. That’s crazy, what your hair is doing! Sorry if I ran out of things to say after ten minutes. But you already know what I’m up to, so it’s sort of hard to come up with new material. Still, good to see you.
I ate Sun Chips for lunch. Plus hummus. Plus leftover Easter candy. Or, wait, was that dinner? Hmm. It was 2:50 P.M.—you decide!
I watched CNN and drank whiskey. Dana Bash was broadcasting from home. She was sitting in front of a bookcase. I thought I saw Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels on her bookcase. I stood up from the couch to get a closer look. “What are you doing?” my wife asked, and I told her that I thought I saw the Ferrante novels on Dana Bash’s bookcase. “That’s weird,” my wife said, but I couldn’t tell if she meant Dana Bash having the Ferrante novels or me spying on the TV.
I slept in until 9:34 A.M. I texted you. I folded towels with great and unappreciated precision. I thought my hair looked kind of cool without a shower, so I skipped a shower, then felt itchy and gross the rest of the day. I answered Joe’s survey. I made soup. Red lentil. I posted a photo on Instagram, if you want to see.
