quarantine – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Locked In

I have seen news stories about all the wildlife boldly going where no undomesticated animal has gone before since the coronavirus quarantine drove people into their dens. While we have been locked down, nature sees us as “locked in.” Wild animals are using the opportunity to run amok. I think it is the natural world equivalent to calling all your friends and having a party when your parents are away for the weekend… or for many extended weeks in the case of coronavirus quarantine.

I am seeing it in my own neighborhood. Our friendly neighborhood rabbit, Honey Bunny, has made several appearances in my backyard in the last couple of weeks. We often see squirrels scattering around in the trees back there. Seeing Honey Bunny is a rarer phenomenon. Up until a few weeks ago, we had not seen hide nor hare for over a year. Then there was Ghastly Gussie the Gator. I’ve lived in Florida for over five years and, before the quarantine, saw no alligators sunning themselves in the proximity of my sun porch. After seeing a very live Ghastly Gussie in the backyard, I have seen two halves of alligators on opposite sides of the main highway outside my subdivision. They might not have been so ghastly as Gussie, but certainly grislier and more gruesome.

A week or so ago, a friend and I both saw some sort of mystery critter within a few days of each other. It was skedaddling into the brush around our community “meditation glen” wooded area. We both saw it in about the same location, so I think it is probably the same animal. Neither one of us have a clue as to the identity of this animal, even after extensive googling. To me, it looked like a brown, furry, ambulatory ottoman roughly the size of an overfed lhasa apso. Someone suggested it might be a wild hog, but it seemed too fluffy to be a hog. It moved like an extremely large skunk, but it seemed to be devoid of any skunk striping or coloring. I wondered if it might be a mink or otter, but it seemed too large and stocky to be a mink or otter. It also would have had to have been a mink or otter having a really bad hair day because this creature certainly lacked the sleek elegance of minks and otters. It might have been a raccoon, but there was no banding on the dark brown bushy tale. I really thought it looked most like a fisher cat or wolverine, but fisher cats and wolverines do not live in Florida. Whatever it was, I am sure I have never seen anything like it before the quarantine.

The other day, as I sat at the table eating breakfast, I noticed some action outside my screened-in lanai. I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked outside and saw Robert(a) the Bobcat sidling past my lanai. If I had been out on the lanai and the bobcat had stayed where he/she was, I could have touched him/her through the screen. That is how close the cat was. Robert(a) was not in any particular hurry. He/she walked purposefully but was clearly not in any “fight or flight” mode. Max and I watched while Robert(a) made his/her way past all the houses on my street until he/she disappeared around a curve in the conservation belt behind the houses.

Not to be outdone by the bobcat, Rocky (short for Rockette; I am guessing she was a female braving the daylight to forage food for a nest of babies) the Raccoon tramped by the lanai yesterday. When I posted a photo on Facebook, my neighbors responded with dire warnings that Rocky was probably the Rabid Raccoon because she was out during the day. Further research indicated that, although raccoons are primarily nocturnal, they are often seen during the day, especially in the spring when mommy raccoons leave the babies in the nest while they wander in search of calories. Either for the babies or for themselves. Apparently, nursing baby raccoons is hard work. Google indicated that, if rabid, a raccoon will likely be disoriented, clumsy, and lethargic. Rocky was none of those things. In fact, she traversed the backyards along my street with a certain pep in her step and lightness of foot. She seemed to travel most gracefully with a rhythm of movement. That is why I named her Rockette. I half expected to see her doing eye high kicks.

I think I am beginning to understand how animals in the zoo feel. I’m locked in and the regular inhabitants of my world are coming out to look at me!

Rockette the Raccoon high-stepping outside my lanai

FRIENDLY REMINDER: Today, my second book, Random (A)Musings, launched on Amazon. You can order paperback and kindle editions. You can thank me later!

Me, showing off my new book before yesterday’s virtual launch party

The Reality Of Fake

A few weeks ago, I lamented the fate of my acrylic fingernails during the COVID-19 lockdown. When I wrote that I had been wearing the nails for over 30 years, something inside me blushed in embarrassment. How could I have been wearing fake fingernails for so long? Time has been marching on over my lifetime. And it seems it has been marching past me with acrylic fingernails.

This epiphany started me thinking about what motivated me to pay someone to paint artificial material mixed with toxic chemicals on my hands every few weeks over the past 30 years. Arguably, the whole acrylic fingernail thing is a ridiculous notion. I have been embracing it for over half my life. How is this possible?

My journey towards three decades of acrylic nails started long before anyone ever even heard of acrylic nails. I was a terrible nail-biter as a child. It started with thumb-sucking and escalated. I could not seem to keep my fingers out of my mouth, no matter how hard I tried. My parents didn’t make a big deal about it, but they tried to help me overcome the habit in every way they could. They tried manicures. They tried bribes. They tried coating my fingers with various solutions designed to discourage me from putting my fingers in my mouth. They put a rubber band on my wrist to snap when I caught myself biting my nails. It was so bad that I often left myself with only nibs of nails. Sometimes, I had to go to the doctor to be treated for infections because of the nail-biting.

Most kids outgrow nail-biting. I was not most kids. As I grew older, I did lose the thumb-sucking habit, but was never able to control the nail-chewing urge. I picked and broke and bit my nails well into adulthood. My hands were always in shambles. I can’t count the number of times I tried to stop, but I always failed.

Fast forward to 1989. My ex-husband left me in 1988 and I was just starting to think about dating again. This was long before internet dating sites (it was long before the internet, period). In those olden dates, the pre-cursor to match.com was the newspaper personal ads. I had no idea how to meet people. I think everyone I knew socially was married. No one seemed to have any suitable gentleman friends with whom to set me up. I eventually met the first man I dated after my divorce through a personal ad. After a few phone conversations, we agreed to meet in person.

I was terrified. In retrospect, I probably had no business dating at that point. I was still too broken from a bad marriage and divorce. Besides, I was almost 30 years old and had not been on a first date since I was 17.

The day we were to meet, my nervous system was in armed revolt. To soothe my squirrely spirit, I went to the mall. Shopping is kind of my drug of choice when I need a little artificial serotonin. As I wandered through the stores, every stress response in my brain pushed me to buy something. I ended up buying some pretty underwear. That didn’t really do the trick for me. After all, I told myself, I had no intention of letting anyone see my underwear that evening so what difference did it make if it was new? I kept wandering and looking for something I could buy. I had already told my date what I was going to wear and, since that was the only way he would recognize me at the bar where we were meeting, changing that particular horse didn’t seem like a good idea. As I walked past the beauty salon, I noticed a sign for acrylic nails. That’s it, I thought, I can buy new nails!

Acrylic nails were just starting to become the rage at that time. I didn’t know anyone who had them. I just saw them as a quick and easy way to gain some confidence for the evening. I knew that my date was likely going to be disappointed in my looks, so I thought that I could at least buy myself some pretty hands. Honestly, if I’d known at the time that you had to come back every few weeks to have more acrylic applied to your fingers, I doubt I would have done it.

I guess ignorance was a good thing in this case because I did like my new nails. I guess I liked them a lot since I’ve been maintaining them ever since.

My hands were nice. They were way nicer than the guy I wanted to impress deserved, as it turned out. I dated him for about a year before realizing he was kind of a jerk and way more trouble than he was worth. I broke up with him, but I did not break up with the acrylic fingernails.

Speaking of breaking up… or, rather… not breaking up… one of the benefits to the acrylics was durability. I can’t say that I completely stopped biting my nails when I got the acrylics. However, the consequences of biting my nails were much more limited. They were so strong, I didn’t demolish them every time they got near my mouth. It was like there was more intervention time. When I put my fingers to my mouth, I had enough time to realize what I was doing and remove them before I did any damage.

All in all, once I had the acrylic nails, I couldn’t imagine not having them. My hands, another shameful secret in my repoirte of unattractive qualities, were no longer a source of embarrassment. I guess, overall, acrylic nails and I have had a decent partnership. But 30 plus years? That just doesn’t seem reasonable. Still, I had every intention of starting over again once the salons reopen. I figured, with the acrylic-related damage incurred by my natural nails and my uncontrollable nail-biting, I’d be lucky to have fingernails at all by the time we are released from lockdown.

Surprisingly, though, my natural nails are doing fairly well after four weeks of freedom from acrylics. They are not in great shape and I’d love to have a manicure, but I don’t seem to be destroying them. The nail atrophy that I expected was nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be. The nails are flimsy and rough but seem to be holding up against normal wear and tear and many, many hand-washings. Even more surprisingly, I don’t think I’m biting them. I smooth the edges each day with a manicure block because they do seem to fray a bit, which also seems to help.

Maybe that the reality of fake is that I don’t need the fake after all!

What is the most fake thing about you? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a real day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

PS: EXCITING ANNOUNCEMENT! My latest book, Random (A)Musings will be released on Amazon.com on Tuesday, June 2, 2020. Please look for it and consider buying a copy… or several dozen! The book will be available in paperback and kindle editions.

Random Observations From Quarantine

Over the past several weeks of “safer at home” lockdown, I’ve had plenty of time to observe the world and think great thoughts. Well, maybe not great thoughts, but thoughts, nonetheless. Here are a few of the notions that are percolating in what is left of my mind:

At some point, my hair’s ability to grow wider, wavier, and wilder exceeds my ability to wield a flat iron. I reached that point a couple of weeks ago. Now, not only do I have a gray streak running down the center of my head at the roots, I am also sporting a hair style reminiscent of a terrifying Bozo The Clown.

It’s okay that I can’t flatten my hair because the flatter my hair is, the more obvious the gray stripe running down my roots is.

I don’t recommend watching a Zombieland flick when you are sheltering-in-place to avoid contagion. We just watched Zombieland Double Tap the other night. A movie about the brain-eating “survivors” in a world decimated by a mutant virus probably wasn’t the best choice. Maybe a little too close to home right now. What’s worse is that I found it laugh-out-loud funny at some points. I felt really crummy about that. My soul is dark and evil.

Going to the grocery store is now like foraging. I play hunter and gatherer for myself and several immune-compromised friends. It is interesting that it is difficult to buy milk, eggs, meat, peanut butter, canned soups, and other protein sources, but there is no shortage of potato chips, ice cream, candy, and cookies on the supermarket shelves. I should be fine.

If my work colleagues who tried so hard to shove me into the 21^st century of technology and distance learning could see me now, they would be laughing hysterically. I was using paper and pen long after every rational person opted for word processing programs. Now, I’m experimenting with conference calls and zoom.com like I invented the whole idea.

It is helpful to keep a handwritten food diary when in isolation. You’ll probably stop eating when the writer’s cramp gets bad enough. No guarantees, though. For people who are hoarding food as if we were awaiting the zombie apocalypse (ooops… there’s that zombie thing again), we certainly are consuming it like there is no tomorrow.

My bedroom floor will never be uncluttered again. I often have bags and boxes of things I need for my various organizations arranged carefully on the bedroom floor. Typically, by May, all my pending projects for these organizations are completed and I regain the real estate in my boudoir. This year, however, all bets are off. I prepared for several large interactive presentations for my church groups before we went under house arrest, including buying supplies and equipment. I thought that stuff would be off the floor of my bedroom by now. These presentations don’t lend themselves to the virtual environment. I have an interesting collection of paper goods, decorations, pamphlets, outlines, art supplies, and bed sheets stacked against the wall of my room. Looks like those things, like me, are not going anywhere for a while.

I wonder if my fingers will ever recover from the pruney wrinkles caused by excessive handwashing. It may require plastic surgery. When I was a little girl, I remember my frustrated mother’s response to misbehavior. She’d say, “go take a bath and don’t come out until you are pruney.” I wonder what I did bad this time.

It’s okay to be sad about “selfish” stuff. Over the past few weeks, many people have had to cancel huge, once-in-a-lifetime celebrations. Graduations, weddings, funeral services, high school reunions, and many other similar events have been postponed or cancelled. People feel bad about feeling bad because they know that, compared to worldwide death and disease, their events are not that big a deal. It is a big deal, though, and I feel for those people. I encourage them to mourn those disappointments. I, fortunately, have not had to deal with anything like that. There have been several “next tier” kind of cancellations that have hit me, though. My planned vacation to New York City to see both Hamilton and Come From Away on Broadway is not happening. I miss my weekly trips to Disney and other fun places. I think I am saddest about missing my annual retreat to Discovery Cove. I’m sure I’ll reschedule, but, with the wackadoodle Florida weather, the ideal window of opportunity for this excursion is limited. I think it is okay to mourn these things, as long as I keep everything in perspective.

I think I may have discovered the antidote for quarantined-induced frumpiness. Two words. Video conference.

What have you observed during this challenging time? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a healthy day!

Terri/Dorry 😊