In the Reign of Coronaphobia …
Hugs? Not recommending, just sayin’
On weekday afternoons, working alongside six others in a spacious church kitchen, I package prepared meals for outdoor distribution.
We women comprise an assembly line of sorts, though roles are fluid in that we can hop in and out and in again as we will.
In the adjunct dining area, one of us lays out the requisite 120 Styrofoam (sorry, cheapest) containers; two others, working crosswise, move right and left down the rows, spooning in the slop of the day. Sad to say, American Chop Suey and Shepherd’s Pie vie for top billing, with more canned corn and instant potatoes as superfluous sidekicks.
As the containers are filled, a tag-team of two jumps in to alternately close them and ferry them in sets of four to the bagging station. Those standing by have in the interim been busying themselves setting out boxes of snacks and such to augment the meal.
One person carefully places the containers into plastic bags, then hands the bags off to two others. Working on opposite sides of the table, they toss into each bag plastic utensils; a juice box; two granola bars; and the fruit, bread, and dessert du jour. Topping off the carbo-overload are two baggies of multi-packed cookies baked by a cadre of stir-crazed tween-agers as an ill-advised home-school project.
I thank you for bearing with me; at the risk of being tiresome, I chose to subject you to this less-than-scintillating scenic detail to help you visualize the extent of our interactions.
Though all are masked, we are not sufficiently distanced; the upshot is that if one of us got corona, we’d all be obliged to quarantine.
We had a close call in November. Mary called to report she’d taken sick; some of her symptoms were consistent with corona. As we awaited the results of her test, we speculated as to the fate of the meal program during our mandatory two-week quarantine. Would a crew step in to continue to serve those dependent on us for their daily supper?
False alarm, fortunately. Test negative; business as usual. Nonetheless, we are ever mindful to be on guard. When Mary returned, she was not greeted with hugs.
I’ve never been a spontaneous hugger. I am receptive to hugs; it just doesn’t occur to me to initiate one. My non-propensity stands me in good stead; hug habits die hard.
Mary, for example, is a spontaneous hugger. Yesterday, in response to my recap of my daughter’s progressive illness, she embraced me.
Mary is eight inches taller than I am; our heads were facing opposite directions, hers over my right shoulder, mine pressed against her waist. Given our usual side-by-side working positions, if one of us had corona, the risk from a hug would have been moot.
That said, my advice, for the record (i.e., to forestall a lawsuit):
If you feel like a hug, head for the forest.