Ha. HA. Back in January I wrote something that went like this: “Seven days into the new year and new decade, we’re on the brink of WWIII, half of the southern hemisphere is ablaze, and I think I’m coming down with a cold. Still, nothing can dampen my spirits: folks, like it or not, this is the Decade of Dreams™. Buckle up, buttercup.”
A dearly adored colleague of mine said it back in late November in a voice bursting with screw-you-2019 enthusiasm and the term stuck. I was using it for everything: annoying, passive-aggressive person I don’t want to deal with? Stop spoiling the Decade of Dreams™. I swipe the last almond croissant? Bring on the Decade of Dreams™! Southern Rail is late again? Obviously they haven’t heard it’s the Decade of Dreams™.
It was my alternative New Years resolution. I’ve never had much time for those – if I want to make a change, I make it now. I started weekly yogalates (yoga + pilates = feel the burn, but be mindful about it) in September*. I made joint financial goals with my partner in November*. I loosely planned the next decade of my life in June*.
Oh naive, sweet Katherine. You had no idea a global pandemic was about to get all up in your – and everyone else’s – business: #WFH becoming commonplace, wrecking holidays and tips to see family, cancelling plans, grounding planes, overwhelming hospitals, forcing families to contend with sudden “crisis schooling” (people, I was homeschooled – believe me, you’re doing an amazing job for just trying), all complete with the cherry on top: blubbering spluttering useless politicians who slander science and ignore those in need.
The Boy and I are well. We’re healthy. We’re safe. And aside from London melting (it’s been above 90F/32c for a few days in a row and we live in an adorable Edwardian [I think] building that was designed to entrap heat), we’re fairly comfortable.
Maybe it’s not the Decade of Dreams™ we planned, but it turns out I don’t look half bad in a face mask, especially when that’s a cobalt face mask was made by a lady named Geraldine in the Midlands who included a handwritten note in cursive to tell us to stay safe, wash our hands, don’t touch our faces, and reminding us that her masks were not medical grade.
And there are the sweet neighbours across the road who texted me to ask if The Boy might be able to help them pick some figs in their back garden (in order to reach the figs, “you need a ladder which we have and long legs which we don’t have”), and afterwards we sat socially distanced in their conservatory to drink beer and share stories. The Boy and I don’t particularly like figs but we agreed to take one or two home. We were given four, individually wrapped in a paper towel each to cushion the long journey back across the street. Now I need to find a recipe.**
I’m trying to look on the bright side. Some days are harder than others – but today, even on less than 6 hours of sleep and slowly melting into my sofa, everything seems ok.
*Plans altered due to COVID-19.