What is My “Meaning of Life?”
I no longer have a clue.
Robotic. Mechanized. Programmed.
Those three words perfectly describe my way of “living” in the time of this pandemic.
Sadly, I wish I had a more positive response to Joe Luca’s excellent story, which I’ve linked to, below. But I don’t. Not yet, not now.
As I slog through my days, each one nearly identical to the last, I wonder, “How much longer?”
How much longer will this go on and are my husband and I doing everything possible to avoid getting sick? Have we checked all the boxes, crossed all the T’s? I believe we have and are, but from all reports, avoiding becoming infected by Covid-19 is a crapshoot. A Vegas roll of the dice.
Even those who have been impeccable in their precautions, like Atlanta’s Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms and her husband, have recently tested positive for the virus.
U.S. citizens are perishing by the thousands every day and if there is one good bit of news to be had and embraced, in our hearts and minds — one pitiful bit to hold onto — I’ve haven’t heard it.
Perhaps if I was younger, my viewpoint would be less dim, but, when you’re in your sixties and literally losing whole seasons, you can think of precious little else. There’s this obsession with time…all the time. At least I feel that. Do you?
Too, I’m so freaking angry. It simmers in me…a slow burn that can erupt into a full-on wildfire at any moment. To add fuel to those flames, I want to drink myself into oblivion. But I can’t. My husband and cats need me, so I must go through the motions and pretend.
Subterfuge takes a lot out of us, doesn’t it? Holding onto the erroneous belief that “soon, everything will be alright.”
It won’t. Not with POTUS’ blind followers mixing and mingling and totally eschewing the protective measures that doctors and scientists have told us will go far toward slowing down the spread of this new-age plague.
Maybe if Donald Trump drops dead tomorrow, we’ll be on an upswing, but, given his stubborn will to hold onto his miserable existence, how likely is that to happen?
Why hasn’t this man gotten sick??
So I realize I haven’t answered Joe’s question because I no longer know what “life” is about. I used to. At one time, so long ago, now, I was excited about my prospects for the future.
At one time, I envisioned my screenplays getting produced. So many years of hard work and dedication. Now, down the rabbit hole. Like the rest of us, Hollywood is “sheltering in place,” and projects that were already set up have been pushed back. Making it that much harder for we screenwriters who are still trying to make our mark.
The funny thing is, it’s not as if my drive has lessened. If anything, it’s gotten stronger, because I’m a stubborn broad that way, but so has my grasp of reality. And I know that in today’s “real” world, a dream can be stomped out like an ebbing campfire, in no time at all. In a heartbeat.
When I watch our cats doing their thing — romping, play-fighting, gobbling up the noon-time treats I give them daily — I see that life can be beautiful. Raw and primal and rife with promise.
They make me remember what once was, and perhaps will be, again.
I mentioned “drinking.” Controlling myself is now a daily struggle as once, the news took a turn for the deadly, I threw all caution to the winds. Cracking open a wine bottle at 3 pm, was my “new normal.” And I saw nothing wrong with it. Because…why the hell not? Whatever gets you through a storm, right?
If it weren’t for the all-too-frequent hangovers, I’d still be throwing back the Cabernet, the Chardonnay, and whatever else I could get my hands on.
Oh…the sweet oblivion of getting smashed. Like a lover who whispers sweet nothings in your ear, their breath warm and soft, like a feather, but one who bolts as soon as the sun comes up. And kicks you in the head first, for good measure.
“I’m sorry, Joe. I wish I had the answers, but I don’t.”
Because life is no longer about “living,” but “surviving.” And, is that so terrible? Not if there’s something to survive for. Like the promise of a vaccine. And a win for Joe Biden in November. And the hope for a new day. Even one…where we don’t have to be frightened of “what’s next?”
Hope. I guess there’s always that.
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.
As always, thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, you might like the other stories, below.
Also, if you’re seeking further distractions during this tough time, please consider subscribing to my new newsletter, where I’ll do my damndest to keep you entertained.
And more from me:
