Did I Cause The Pandemic?
For all of January, I kept telling everyone who would listen—my silent husband or my girlfriends who would give me half a second to speak and only because they’d paused to take a long slurp of the last bottle of Bordeaux wine from Marchesi di Barolo vineyards culled from the hostess’ most recent trip to Italy. Half a second, mind you, because I’d usually be surrounded by a dozen garrulous Indian girlfriends who’d think nothing of jumping in and interrupting me in mid-flow.
“Tsk, tsk,” I’d fume silently. None of my American girlfriends behave like this. They listen politely, courteously waiting their turn to talk.
The Positive Place: Three weeks into Quarantine
Thirty-two days into the pandemic, and I’m homesick for my frothy macchiato coffee latte. For my favorite barista—a pierced, tattooed young man with a military haircut, and the build of a Navy seal. For movies at my preferred theater in Livermore and how I would slump down in my seat with my buttered popcorn and a glass of Riva Ranch. I flick channels on the T.V. remote to get a glimpse of other people’s worlds to soothe my own. The over walked dog twitches next to me on the well-worn burnt orange sofa.
Last week, the adrenalin kept me going but now the harsh reality sets in. The last package of ground chicken is defrosting on the kitchen counter downstairs. We will need haircuts. Netflix is not coming on. Oh God, I think. I’m trapped in this house without a means to watch the last episode of Tiger King. My frantic gaze falls on the 2020 wall calendar with the events of April still not crossed out—the violin recital for my nephew, the parent-teacher meeting at my daughter’s school, my cousin’s wedding in Cabo, Mexico.
News from the trenches: A week of coronavirus isolation
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??
Displaced And Out of Step . . .
The lilting music tumbles and washes over me. Is it Beethoven or Bach? I wouldn’t know, even if I tried. I’ve never been a classical music type of person. Give me Frank Sinatra or the young musician my daughter’s crazy about—Billie Ellish, I think her name is.
They play these kinds of calm, soulful tunes in these high-end spas, all soft voices and padded steps. It’s all a facade really. Just like Biden’s unexpected but salient victory in the polls last week. I voted for Bernie Sanders, but if Joe Biden gets the nomination, I’ll cast an unwilling vote for him. Not that it matters. Trump is expected to sail into office for a second term. Darn those blue-collar states again—the middle-class belt fighting against the jobs going abroad.
Going Away
All the arrangements have been made. The suitcases are stowed in the trunk of the limousine that’s come to whisk me and Daddy away for ten days. I perch on the edge of my seat, my legs pressed neatly together as I mentally scroll through my checklist.
Did you remember to pack the canary yellow outfit for the mehndi, the fuchsia lehenga for the sangeet, the organza red sari for the wedding, the gold Kanjeevaram sari for the reception?
Check.
Self Love
She peers down with squinty eyes at her weighing scale. She adjusts her pre-breakfast body—she tilts her love handles to the left, then to the right, so that the weight displayed in numbers that appears on the electronic screen will put her in a good mood. The magical number that will let her cook, clean, and teach math to her kindergarten class while floating on a fluffy, white cloud all day.
She grimaces and steps down, arms crossed across her chest, shoulders hunched. Four pounds above her normal weight since the holiday season ended. She groans as she thinks of all the celebrations still to come. Valentine’s Day, Holi, St. Patrick’s Day, Baisakhi, school graduations. At this rate, she won’t be able to fit into her size eight dresses this season or the next.
Something inherited I will not pass on . . .
This love of clothes, it’s a cursed thing. Everywhere I look there are cabinet drawers, boxes, plastic bags, canvas sacks, more cardboard boxes, and sundry junk drawers overflowing with outfits for every season and every reason—pastels, brights, neutrals, whites, blacks, reds, and every color in between.
Take, for example, my decades-long obsession with animal print. I have animal print in every style—in a flowy maxi dress, a knee-length dress, a jumpsuit, a romper, a Manish Malhotra gown; even a bikini or two in ubiquitous animal print.
Visiting Vietnam: 10 Reasons Why?
Why Vietnam? Hanoi’s bustling old quarter; historically rich Hoi An’s lantern ceremony and the dramatic scenery of Ha Long Bay: it is small wonder that Vietnam was named the World’s Leading Heritage Destination in 2019. Vietnam’s growing popularity as a travel destination has been confirmed by Trip Advisor’s ranking of it as one of the 10 best places to visit in the world. If you need persuading, here are 10 reasons to fall head over heels in love with Vietnam:
Motorbike Capital of the World:
A young woman on a motorbike brakes sharply to avoid a collision and her conical leaf hat flies off her head and lands on the sidewalk. That’s Vietnam for you.
Cheers to 2020 and another chance for us to get it right!
”For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” – T.S. Eliot
A New Year brings infinite new possibilities. A clean slate. A reason to erase past mistakes and start afresh. We all know that resolutions don\’t always stick. But for a shot at real happiness, try penning a set of personal commandments (an idea borrowed from best-selling author Gretchen Rubin.)
I would suggest writing them down and keeping them handy. This may make you laugh, but I have mine scribbled on a post-it note stuck to a long-expired Bed & Bath coupon. Anytime I\’m stuck in traffic, listening to Zayn’s \’Trampoline’ repeat itself for the fourth time in a sixty-minute window, I find myself pulling out my handy-dandy list and ruminating on what\’s important.
Here\’s my list . . . to help you get started on your own:
If I could I would . . .
She squeezes her eyes tightly shut not to let the tears fall. “That day, that moment, if I could have that time back.”
The morning of September 22 had started out innocuously enough. Yes, Javed was crying at the top of his newborn lungs, wanting his early feeding. But that was normal for a two-month baby. She’d fed him, then walked him up and down the tiny apartment, rubbing his back so he’d burp, all the while practicing aloud the words of the scene for the movie she was auditioning for later in the day. She’d been so excited when her agent had called with the opportunity—so few and far between these days ever since she’d had baby Javed. Ninety seconds was all it took to make him, and it was going to take a lifetime to raise him.