Staying Home, gillian mckendree, lisa osorio

Staying Home When trapped inside, stay occupied with arbitrary activities and sporadic journaling.

creative director janna mccabe photographer lisa osorio by gillian mckendree 66

3/16/2020

Every day, life has changed drastically, and while there are no reanimated corpses roaming the streets, I can’t help but feel displaced. This was my year, my semester. I was set to walk across my university’s stage in robe and tassel, waving at my family somewhere behind the blinding light glare hovering over the stands. I’d toss my cap amongst my peers in one last cheering motion. I’d take pictures in front of those cliché red bricks where black fence spokes pierce the cloudy sky. I went to my last class without realizing it. I packed my car up and traveled down I-10 for the last careless time. And while I’m home when it’s usually Spring Break, it most definitely is not as it seems. I’m in a grey sweatsuit, the wrong kind of suit; local beaches being some thirty minutes away from me, not that it matters though. A new virus has taken the medical industry—society overall—by storm, creating a pandemic and leaving families shut inside their homes, hopeful it will make a difference. With beaches, bars, and bistros closed indefinitely; I’ve had to recreate my schedule to find some sort of grip amongst this. I’ve decided to turn off the news today and dedicate my newly emptied Mondays to reading. And writing, if this counts. I didn’t realize how dusty my bookshelves were. I thought I read more than I actually did. Spines ranging every color beckon as I wipe them down and straighten their placements. I wasn’t near a pool, but still, I dove.

3/17/2020

I know we’re living through a historical moment, but I can’t help but laugh at how easy we have it, considering how life was like amid previous pandemics ago. I’m still in my grey sweatsuit; I have white socks on today, though. I’m on my mother’s dated tapestry couch with a pink Tupperware filled with popcorn. While my social life is looking bleak, passing the time isn’t too much of a chore. With Netflix, Disney, or Hulu, the options are virtually endless. I wince thinking about the times where television sets came in hefty boxes, and your hands could glide across the tubes lining the screen, creating static before a parent barked at you to stop. Today, hours are marked by episodes, and I can’t remember how many I’ve watched. What was that? Two on Netflix, one on Hulu; I can’t even discern where one Simpsons episode ended and the next began. I guess I haven’t looked out of the window for a while because it’s dark now, and Mom’s calling from the Kitchen signaling that dinner’s ready. We’ve been talking more around the table as of late. It’s been nice.

3/19/2020

My family and I woke up with newfound vigor. Breakfast consisted of eggs and toast, and we joked about the monopoly tribulations we faced the night beforehand. The closeness I felt didn’t stop once we hit our pillows, and we decided to take a walk around our quiet neighborhood. Walking out the front door felt strange, I’ll admit, but after seeing not one face, we agreed that hearing the birds chirp--and not through a glass pane—was pleasant and soothing. We felt like tourists, almost. We spotted the neighborhood children’s doodles of rainbows and sunflowers pasted in their windows, and the ferns and oak trees that lined the road had a new excitement to them. Our three-mile loop came to an end, so we laid out in the grass of our backyard, desperate to draw out our time in the fresh air as long as possible. We needed this. What was customarily resented or thoughtless brought out a youthful giddiness, as if the desolate outdoors was now a rebellious act. I keep thinking about how we saw not one car. I’m sure the Earth is embracing that as much as we are.

3/20/2020

My family and I woke up with the slightest of tan lines from our walk yesterday. We all joked about if we could continue this by basking in our windows for long enough. Probably not. Today is a bit harder for me. I know if everything were still normal, I’d be securing my black western belt and pulling on my booties, getting ready to share drinks in the presence of friends before migrating to our favorite bars. We made so many memories in those spaces, and I never got to appreciate all of us going out to play the last time we did. I send the group chat a text, and I sigh as it blips into deliverance. The cotton of my sweatpants feel more cumbersome, and I make my way to the kitchen to root around the fridge. Dad picked up beer. The cans and even the plastic tying the pack together have all been wiped down with Lysol. I close my eyes and crack it open. I snap a photo and send it to the girls. Within seconds, I’ve started a “See a Chug, Send a Chug,” and I can’t help but feel my eyes get hot. There is no replacement or comparison to the friends you make in college. One jokes about creating a social distancing Happy Hour Zoom session. Another is more serious about that idea and sends a link; we all join. Seven girls in loungewear are reclined in their childhood beds and cheering with beverages in hand. We talked until Mom called for dinner, and I said my goodbyes feeling lighter than ever; I promised to text as soon as I hung up. The family noticed how relieved I seemed. I was.

3/22/2020

It’s 9:38 a.m., the news is on, and I can hear the same redundant headlines filtering down the hallway. That’s all the channels have been filled with lately, even the commercials too. New trends are popping up everywhere, orienting around this new normal. I did an excellent job preoccupying myself for the week, but I’d be lying if I said the severity didn’t weigh down heavily. All you can really do is take it a day at a time. Knowing that this upcoming week might very well mirror the past one, I felt driven to reset my room and prepare for it. Allow a blank slate, I guess, refresh it all. I get to it. In my bathroom, I see my workout clothes from Thursday hanging limp in the hamper, and that boardgame piece from Wednesday hiding underneath the couch. The book I chose that Monday—which feels so long ago at this point—sits slightly askew on the shelf I left it on, and I realize how all these gentle reminders are showing me that while normalcy is changing, I have lived life—a week even—differently. It was a pleasant change of pace. I’ve done things I haven’t done in years and find myself oddly regrounded, while the world around me most certainly isn’t. In light of this historical moment, I’ve discovered that maybe, just maybe, if you take away the terror of it all, this is how life should be. We aren’t just living inside our homes these days, we’re living in our heads too, and it’s wise to take the best possible care we can. I know I will.