March 16

After a blast of cheery emails and messages on WhatsApp, Twitter, FB, Instagram, and Tumblr on how many people have recovered from coronavirus, what meditation apps to download, where to buy hand sanitizer, and where not to go for empty shelves of toilet paper rolls, a short simple notification shows up on Nextdoor:

“I can’t stop eating!”

Six days later, and the post is still trending. I want to hold up an emphatically guilty hand. A long-time believer in the intermittent fasting way of life, I usually have no problem fasting for sixteen hours straight. Now, I’m eating for sixteen hours straight!

Why can I not stop binging? Could I have been exposed to a mutated version??

March 17

My son drives home from Los Angeles where he’s been working and living for the past year. With the shelter-in-place directive being enforced in the city of San Francisco, my nephew comes home to stay with us. My daughter packs up her dorm room and comes home since all the classes are now in virtual mode. After years of being an empty nester, I have the full brood at home. My heart sings with wild abandon while my mind freaks out: Is this three weeks of non-stop Thanksgiving I’m staring at?

I pull on my sweats and announce to the household that I’m going out to get groceries. All three kids swat me down, saying loudly, “ No, you can’t go. You’re in the wrong age demographic. We’ll go and get whatever you need.”

While I’m not thrilled about the “age” comment, I can’t help feeling warm and mushy by the kids’ caring and protective attitude. I clasp my head in my hands: Why didn’t I have eleven kids when I had the chance?

Thirty minutes later, the kids dump the groceries on the kitchen counter with a loud clatter. One of the bag rips open and food items go flying on the marble surface. Cans hit the surface with loud clinking sounds and bounce away, apples roll and bruise, while a milk carton bursts, spilling its contents over the bread and greens.

An insidious thought crawls into my brain like a fat worm after the rain: Are the cleaners still coming tomorrow?

March 18

The salon where I get my three-weekly eyelash extensions texts to inform me that they will be closed until April 7th to obey the ‘stay-at-home’ order. I’ve chewed my acrylic nails down to nubs in empathy for each new coronavirus case detected. And, now I have to look forward to looking like a bald headed eagle with my dark lush lashes falling out in clumps. The only silver lining: all upcoming birthday celebrations, graduations, weddings and mehndi parties have been canceled, so it’s time to let go of the “look gorgeous always” obsession.

Wait, there’s a new worry swirling in my stomach like boiling milk. I stopped taking birth control pills two years ago when I entered perimenopause. Yet, with all this cloistering at home, there’s been more action in the bedroom than has been seen in a decade (the ungroomed look notwithstanding.) A mad thought takes hold of me: Is it possible to get pregnant late in life?

March 19

I’ve rented and watched Bombsell, JoJo Rabbit and, Richard Jewell. It’s always been my dream to watch all the Oscar and Emmy nominated movies by the first quarter of the year.

Yay! I did it!!

I yawn widely. Now what? I can devour the latest New York Times article about how many deaths have been recorded or I can go into the kitchen and heat up the golden-brown gulab jamun soaked in rosewater syrup that my kids picked up from Chawla Spices yesterday or, I can surf the internet.

9 a.m: Nordstrom announces its stores close in response to the Covid-19 scare.

11 a.m.: Nordstrom.com announces 20% off sitewide coupon.

True, traveling, restaurants, galas, and movies are a thing of the past, but my astrologer from India, Dr. Kamal Advani sent me the 2020 coronavirus prediction yesterday. According to Vedic calculations, the end of Coronavirus is forecast for 23rd September 2020, with “Ketu transiting to Scorpio, moving away from Mool Nakshatra.”

Yipppeeeee!

This calls for a celebration, and a new dress!

March 20

My husband and kids outvote me to cancel the cleaners. They also decide that it’s safer to eat home-cooked meals and not order takeaway. The new cooking and cleaning lady is named: Me, Myself and I. Arrgh! I’ve never cooked and cleaned as much as I have in the last few days.

Why are the kids such slobs? Wouldn’t it have been better to have just one kid or (gulp) none at all?

I want to go outside for a run, but the weather sucks. I know we need the rain, but goddamit, could it just stop pouring for a nanosecond?

I decide to attempt a ‘Club Pilates on the Go’ class, but by the time I figure out how to log in to Zoom, the lissome twenty-something-year olds that I spy on the live screen are rolling up their mats, with beatific expressions on their shiny faces.

March 21

My son introduces me to Headspace, a meditation app that he swears will lower my blood pressure, rewire my brain, and tame the voice in my head without losing my edge.

I’m disdainful of this new-fangled technology, but to keep the peace in these confined quarters, I agree to give it a try.

Three hours later, I’m filled with new tranquility. Reveling in my new-found Zen, I send a message to my cleaner asking her how she’s doing, and assuring her that I will continue to pay her wages during the lockdown. She’s a proud woman I know, so her immediate text back thanking me profusely for helping her family “during this very hard time” brings me to my knees. At the same time, my friend who’s a ER physician sends me a picture of the raggedy, blood-smeared solitary face mask she’s been using for the past five patients. The true intensity of the crisis has suddenly hit home.

I hug myself and rock on my heels as I recite the beginnings of a poem I’ve penned:

If I can remain quiet and calm,

not shaking hands, but instead saying “Salaam”

If I can focus on what I can control: practicing kindness and grace,

while chasing my kids and the dog in a three-legged race,

If I can just stay home on my ass

Then, this too will pass.