The Isolation Journals: Glorious Awkwardness
Today’s writing prompt proved a challenge because what was once my most glorious awkward intrinsic trait is currently a way of life for a vast number of people globally. I agonized over the topic longer than I should have.
It felt “too easy” – choosing to write about a “glorious awkward trait” that is so widely accepted now.
It felt “too hard” – would people relate to this as “awkward” now? Could anyone imagine the feeling of hundreds of people staring at them as if they were a freak when they walked down the aisle of an airplane? Would people be able to relate to the experience of returning to the box office, 10 minutes into a movie, to request a new seat assignment; or asking the manager at the gym if they could move to a different cross-training workout station? As many people embrace this trait now, would they be able to imagine their co-workers and friends repeatedly teasing them about this awkwardness and questioning their sanity?
On the idea of it being “too easy”: I thought about some of our most brilliant artists, inventors, designers, musicians, and filmmakers. Stories of being “misunderstood”, “an outcast”, or feeling “different” are commonly shared in interviews. However, once a certain level of fame or recognition is achieved, people celebrate and often emulate their “glorious awkward traits”. But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes that recognition came after decades of taunting by peers, sometimes after death.
On the idea of it being “too hard”: Just this morning, I opened the front door, and saw the grocery delivery driver, in his N95 mask and latex gloves, jump back to the required social distance of 6 feet. Yes, even though this trait is now widely accepted, it still feels awkward. Each of us shrouded in masks as a way to protect each other and ourselves from a dangerous virus. While we both understood it as a necessity, it felt surreal, removed from humanity.
The delivery driver was visibly nervous and anxious to leave. I’d ordered some wine so he needed to scan my ID. With our feet firmly planted on their 6’ marks, our bodies stiffly upright to remain out of the no-fly zone, we extended our arms just far enough that his scanner could read my driver’s license, and retreated as soon as we heard the confirming “beep”.
The writing prompt Jon Batiste offered this morning asked us to describe our “glorious awkwardness”. Well, my glorious awkwardness is: early onset Germaphobia.
I first remember consciously being disgusted by people’s hands in middle school. It wasn’t about the person. I simply saw all the things they touched, could envision dirt and bacteria piling up each time they picked up a pencil, touched the desk, tied their shoe, or twirled their hair. I hid it well (I think), but inside I cringed seeing them raise their unwashed hand to their mouth to eat a sandwich, a healthy snack, or a cookie.
My friends would get sick and brush it off. Their congested nasal passages trying to intake air as they argued, “Agh, izzz jus uh hedddd cold” when I’d decline their request to “try a sip” of my soda. I didn’t want a cold, a head cold, the flu, their mouth on my straw, their breath droplets on the lid.
And it never went away. I thought about it during sex (this was after middle school, for those tracking chronologically). “He didn’t wash his hands when we got home and now they’re where. . . and then. . . ?”
The 3-second rule… or 10 second rule… I don’t remember how many seconds it was, but if a thing fell on a table, the floor, a counter, my shirt, it was not going in my mouth.
In order to have any semblance of a social life, I did the best I could to hide it. Unlike the arbitrary “x-second rule” which never worked for me, I tried to appease my anxiety with “the alcohol will kill it”, which worked for me if I’d consumed enough alcohol.
I’m active, physically and socially. I like to run half marathons, am competitive in a circuit training class, go to rock concerts surrounded by thousands of sweaty people, eat meals out, bump elbows at a crowded bar, travel. The longer I was out in the world, the more I witnessed the repulsive and inconsiderate trait many people - adult people - had of not covering their faces when they sneezed or coughed.
As recently as February – when we were well aware of COVID19, but before we were ordered to stay home – I saw a man sneeze all over the self-service ticket kiosk at the movie theater, as he retrieved his tickets. It was a busy Saturday night. I envisioned all the people who would touch that kiosk after him, print their tickets, go buy popcorn, and put that popcorn directly in their mouth to determine whether it would be salty enough a third of the way through the bucket, before leaving the concession stand to take their seat and perhaps wash their hands on the way. Perhaps.
I alerted an employee, who politely responded, “Thanks for letting us know!” As he continued to address the needs of people in line, the thought of a deadly virus on a high-touch public surface was now trailing off in the distance, unattended.
I’ve been wearing a mask on airplanes, trains, and in all forms of public transport, for more than a decade. The most accessible photo of it I have (meaning I don’t have to sift through 8 hard drives to find an older one) is from 2018 and is posted at the end of this story.
First, it was the looks on the faces of the gate agents, followed by the flight attendants who strained to hear my replies, muffled by the mask. Then, of course, there are the looks other passengers give you, followed by their sighs of relief that you’re not sitting next to them, until you do. Sit. Down. Next. To. Them.
At dinners, my friends would sit waiting around the table, while I washed my hands for well over 20 seconds. Often, depending how long we’d been friends, people would say, “C’mon. It’s ok. The alcohol will kill it!”
Their children would ask, “Can we just start eating?” Sometimes, they could.
Business meals were equally complicated. A coworker once wiped her nose on her napkin, put her napkin on the table, and it touched my fork. I tried to hold it together, to not request new utensils, which would likely be uncomfortable for at least two of us during this business lunch. But I was eating chopped salad. I needed a fork. And I could not use that one. I tried to flag down the server as inconspicuously as possible.
Fuck. I’m a “M’am” already. Fuck. “Could you please bring me another fork?”
The server picked up the fork, raised it toward his eyes, and twirled it around until nearly every part of it had been touched by his fingers, and declared, “This fork is clean!”
To which my colleague added, “It’s fine. It’s just my allergies.”
Allergies… COVID-19…. the mucus oozing from your nose… whatever hepatitis may now be smeared all over that fork… I’m not using it to place things in my mouth.
This text message regarding COVID-19 is from that co-worker:
To me, for as long as I can remember, this trait wasn’t awkward. It was sensible. I could see how we moved through the world - and we weren’t clean about it. How many things do you do, and surfaces do you touch, between using the ATM and washing your hands? Even if you wanted to, there’s no mechanism for hand washing directly adjacent to the ATM (yet). How many other people pressed those buttons with their dirty hands? Those of us who carry hand sanitizer still have to reach into a pocket or a purse to get it out, mash our dirty ATM hands all over the lid to get it open, splatter it on a hand, close the bottle, brace it between our non-dominant forearm and our ribs, and then rub our hands together vigorously without having it splash in our eyes.
Put the bottle of sanitizer away.
Feel victorious.
And then hear the parking lot attendant decree, “You’re safe!”
One of my favorite observations came from my friend’s son. He was only 5 at the time, but he’d been witness to my glorious awkwardness for most of his life.
“Colette? What happens if you run out of hand-sanitizer?”
“I have more hand-sanitizer.”
“No, but say you’re out - like now - and that bottle is empty… “
“I’ve got a backup bottle in my purse,” I responded, waving the evidence before him.
“Ok, but what about if you’re in the car. . . and you run out of hand-sanitizer in the car??”
“I have a backup bottle in the car too…”
In January and February, people freshly returned from their global voyages and large family dinners, would come to circuit training class sick. Coughing, sneezing, sick. “After this workout, I’m going to urgent care,” one member told her friend as we waited in the lobby for class to begin. “I haven’t been able to get rid of this cough for weeks!”
I’d speak with the manager or guest services (they have a fancier name for it, but whatever) people at the front desk. “I come here to be healthy, to stay healthy, to keep my immune system strong. There are visibly sick people about to get on the treadmill adjacent to - and touching - my treadmill, while we breathe heavily, running 8 miles per hour, for 23 minutes, in a steamy enclosed studio. Do you think you could send out an email alerting members that if they’re sick, they should stay home?”
“No, we can’t ask our members to stay home,” they’d respond, while simultaneously – and at my request - reassigning me to a station further away from said sick people. By the way, it wasn’t up to the lovely people at the front desk. They had been told or, at minimum, believed it to be a corporate policy that sick people could workout there.
Fast forward to April 2020: my glorious awkwardness is your glorious awkwardness.
My friends now call me for advice. Colleagues ask where I got my reusable mask (the one pictured below in 2018). “Where did you get that bottle of hand sanitizer?” someone will ask, unaware there’s backup.
But it’s still awkward, isn’t it? Not being able to see the smile of a stranger, clutching the wall as your neighbors cross paths in the narrow walkway, flinching anytime someone sneezes during a ZOOM call. It was one thing when a handful of us felt this way. We understood it to be odd, but we couldn’t escape it, and everyone else seemed to balance it out with their carefree spirits. But now we’re all fumbling through space, with as few points of contact as possible.
Back on the subjects of “easy” and “hard”: in many ways, the new CDC guidelines and local safety mandates have been exceptionally easy for me. It’s my “glorious awkward” moment in the spotlight. I haven’t had to change my behavior at all. I didn’t have to rush to the store (though, on the subject of toilet paper, I am living roll-to-roll).
I have had to change my activities. I miss going to the gym, the crowded bars, the packed arena concerts. I miss running on the beach. I miss traveling. I’ve become numb to the notices of concert cancellations and postponements. Are the days of being at a music festival, with 100,000 people, crammed into sweaty tents, over?
The active part of my life coming to a standstill is hard. But that, I’m still hopeful, is temporary. The hardest part, for me, now that everyone shares this glorious awkwardness, is wondering how we regain that sense of safety in physical space. Will we become afraid to do the things that used to make us feel so alive? Hopefully, we’ll remind each other, “The alcohol will kill it!”
