<Self-Portrait In Mirror W/Mask: 3:00 AM/The Reckoner>
The major sign, from my standpoint, is that most people have largely given up wearing face masks. Those who still do, besides Your Humble Narrator, are mainly older people. As in, the advanced elderly, and those closer to my demographic (fifty and sixtysomethings).
These days, masking is now optional for most public spaces, though if you're still feeling uneasy, the authorities suggest keeping yours on, and ask those around you for tolerance. But if it's optional, why should anybody have to worry? Doesn't that seem a little contradictory?
As you might imagine, this leads to odd situations. Our visiting doctor recently popped in to see the Squawker and I, so we dropped the question: "Do you think it's time to ditch the masks altogether, in light of the current situation? Have things eased up enough to allow that?"
She immediately fired back with a question of her own: "What, do you go around wearing your mask indoors?"
"Er, no," I suggested. "Not exactly. No need to do that, if it's just us."
"I have a lot of immuno-issues," Squawker responded. "So that's why we're still wearing ours."
Then again, getting a simple subject-verb-object sentence out of any medical professional is rather difficult. Whether it's fear of lawsuits, or a natural skittishness to give out too many compromising details, I've no idea, but doctors are often like Treasury Secretaries.
No sooner do they tout a pin drop in the interest rate, before they say: "But I can't promise you, that they won't go back up." You get the idea.
"Er, something like that," I ventured. "It's not a John Wayne thing for me -- it just makes sense, doesn't it? Maybe there's another variant in the air, waiting for its chance to slip under the radar.'
I wasn't prepared for her response. "Well, good for you!" the cashier said. Her voice rose a notch or two. "The shots don't work, anyway."
"Well, I can't say that I'm perfect," I said. "I haven't gotten around to it. Mainly, because I work at home, and it's not that I'm around people constantly, so..."
The bagger paused momentarily, from his work. "Are you afraid of needles? Does that something to do with it?"
"Well, yeah, there is that." I slid my debit card out of the holder. "I mean, it's not the whole reason, but you're talking to a guy who winces and squirms whenever they do blood draws. My forearm doesn't like those, either."
"I get what you mean," the bagger said. "Whenever I do anything like that, I have to think about something else."
I thank the crew, scoop up my bananas, two liters and assorted items -- a nine-grain bread loaf here, a package of Oscar Meyer lunchmeat there -- and head back to my virtual cave, the living room that's functioned as the nerve center of my existence for years and years, long before the COVID-19 bomb dropped, and rattled our bones like no virus had no ever done before.
One thought crosses my mind, as I head home. Drawing red lines and exclamation marks under anything isn't always so simple. Yes, May 11 may well be the day du jour, but events don't always bend to official declarations.
Maybe in a few more months, I can let go of the protocols -- stay six feet apart, wash your hands a little bit more often, wear those masks when you're out and about -- that have defined so much of my last three years.
But something tells me to keep my powder dry, for now, for just a little bit longer. "Who was that masked man," you say? Well, it's me. For now, at least. --The Reckoner
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