Covid Has Stripped Me of My Social Skills

Copping a Pandemic Plea

Yesterday, I felt like crap. I looked and moved like I’d been run over by a Hummer. You know what I’m talking about: The kind of morning when crawling out of bed and “facing the day” is about as appealing as a booger nestled amongst the greens in your “Hello Fresh” box.

Straight up. I’m putting this out there in the hope that someone can relate and we can whine on each other’s shoulders. Because being in “stir,” has messed me up.

The previous night had been rough. I barely slept and had to contend with a runaway freight train of thoughts that kept my brain abuzz. All. Freakin.’ Night. Long.

My husband had a fitful night as well, but he rarely gets a decent night’s sleep due to his struggle with insomnia.

Aside from all the other shit scrabbling around in my head, I had to contend with the guilt that niggled away at me, relentless in its quest to make me feel even worse than I already did. Guilt is a little bastard, no?

Right about now, you might be thinking, “Why were you feeling guilty, Sherry?”

Well, I’ll tell you, but please keep the wrist-slaps to a minimum as I’ve already mentally beaten the crap out of myself.

No. Go ahead and kick my ass as I deserve it.

Since the onset of the virus and resulting quarantine, my husband and I haven’t gone anywhere other than the grocery store. No lie. He works from home and I do my thing from home so, we’re always home! And we don’t believe in taking stupid chances.

With that said, my nephew, one of my sister’s sons, has been wanting us to come for dinner for months now, as he and his fiancee moved into a new townhouse and were excited for us to see it.

After turning him down several times, I finally caved and said we’d be there. Since it was to be a small gathering — just me and my husband, my nephew, and his fiancee, and my sister and her husband — I felt we’d be “safe,” as no one has gotten sick, or been exposed to the virus, thank goodness.

Plus, my nephew is a police officer and a very responsible young man. And his fiancee works in a restaurant so they’re both routinely tested.

I was really looking forward to pulling out one of my red lipsticks, dressing in something other than my pandemic getup, and seeing our loved ones.

The day of the get-together, I worked out as I always do, scribbled a few notes for stories and roasted Brussels sprouts, carrots and zucchini with olive oil and garlic to bring as a a side dish.

I’d had a productive day and was proud of my self, damn it!

When we arrived at my nephew’s place, he gave us the tour and offered us cocktails. And therein lie the proverbial rub in an otherwise delightful situation: Tito’s. In the back of my mind, I knew the Latino charmer would be there…the “seventh guest,” if you will, but I wasn’t counting on getting up close and personal with the fucker. I haven’t drunk vodka in months and yes, I was looking forward to indulging…just a bit, but, as I dove into my first cocktail, it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten all day.

Hmmmmmmm.

Screw it. That’s what I thought, anyway, telling myself that I was going to take it slow. But, when you drink on an empty stomach and the booze hits your blood stream, it doesn’t matter how slow you go.

Now, the thing with me is, sometimes when I imbibe, I will be utterly fine for a while, and then CLICK, a faulty synapse in my brainpan sends me down the river of no return.

I don’t want to give the impression that I went on a tear. I did not. But, as my husband describes it, “I don’t know what happened. You were fine, and then it’s like you got really tired.”

Just shoot me now.

He also mentioned that sometimes, I appear to “tense-up” around my family.

Hmmmmmmmm.

As I said, pre-dinner, there was vodka, and after that, wine, which I enthusiastically helped myself to repeatedly until my hubby took the bottle away.

Thank Buddha that I didn’t fall down or do anything untoward, like that, but I’m still embarrassed as my behavior was not of the sort I’d want for my first night out in months.

Also, adding fuel to the fire, I mentioned what I thought was a hi-larious story about my sister’s old boyfriend, the guy she was dating when she had taken a break from the dude who she eventually married, and something I said led my brother-in-law to think that she was cheating on him during that period. She was not, but, they had a discussion about it.

I learned about this the next morning from my sister, herself.

As memory is quite agreeable in its selectivity, I chose not to recall that particular gaffe.

But there were more, folks. There always are. Diane, my sister, had brought a couple of desserts that she’d made herself. One was a kick-ass white wine, bundt cake and at some point, I’d decided that a fork was an implement whose time had come and gone and I started ripping off pieces of the cake with my hand.

About now you’re probably thinking, “Damn. Note to self. After this is over, NEVER invite Sherry for a visit.”

But friends, I’m better than that. Yes, I know it sounds like I’m copping a plea but sometimes, my good intentions don’t work out as planned. Because it had been so long since we’d been together, in my mind, I wanted everything to be perfect. So, instead of being chill, I tensed-out and screwed up. Again.

Thankfully, my nephew and his fiancee seem relatively unconcerned and were gracious in making the point that they want to ‘have us over again, soon,” but still, I’m humiliated and pissed at myself.

I looked good, though. Gotta give myself that, at least. Even though I realize I’m grasping at straws. What was that old SNL spoof of the actor Fernando Lamas, where a heavily-accented Billy Crystal says, “It is better to look good than feel good?” That was me, to a T.

In all truth, I should probably feel embarrassed to share this with you, but I’m not. You’ve seen my warts, before and will again, no doubt.

I know my family loves me and that my sister is concerned that I’m becoming a mirror image of our late mother, who had her own share of wild-ass demons and enjoyed a nightly tipple of vodka, even when in hospice care. At that point, it didn’t matter.

Rather than trying to make me feel bad, my sister merely wants me to be more aware that I have the “gene.” Why she doesn’t have it is anyone’s guess. As for our brother, who knows? We haven’t talked to him in over five years.

Ahh, families!

So think of this as a cautionary tale. If you’ve been hunkered down on the homestead this past year and have the opportunity to safely mix and mingle, let’s say in a small, family gathering, don’t behave as if you’ve just been ferried off of Rikers Island. And if use the silverware. It’s there for a reason.

And in future, I’ll do my best to take my own advice.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

Thanks for reading, guys. If you enjoyed this, I’d love for you to check out the following, as well as my newsletter, Sherry Raw.