In two days, on April 1, I receive my second vaccination shot at the massive and efficiently run Moscone Convention Center in downtown San Francisco to which I take my afternoon walk down decrepit Market Street. My company joined the rest of Bay Area biotech to call me a lab worker who merits special vaccination treatment. I initially found such designation unfairly appalling until all my friends jumped the line and most of my circle got vaccinated.
Covid is over? I feel relief not to have contracted coronavirus, especially to pass it on to another. Yet, my life hardly changes. I stay to my routines of not leaving the apartment 2 days out of 3.
San Francisco slowly reopens. Two weeks ago, I was shocked to see indoor dining and drinking, albeit at limited capacity. Apparently gyms and salons can restart though I never went to either venue. Without public gathering spaces—the bars, movies, and clubs—there still is no place for me to go and hang out. Furthermore, as national virus levels escalate from people’s recent lack of caution, I continue my own sequestration.
The end of this pandemic proves harder than the beginning. We now see a window open, so we’re upset we cannot go out and play. I’m so bored. I just want to sleep all day. I’m tired of food. Little looks appetizing.
I go through the motions of life, struggle to write lists and get stuff done. I sew bright blue fleece covers for 4 Snowflakes so their white fabric diffusers will not stain upon transport. I’m supposed to write a lecture for my brother’s college on a Career in Chemistry. I don’t want to confront going home to my aging parents at the end of April. Instead, I sleep.
When this is all over, what will be left? Will we have grown much older? Have we lost our youth?