“A Sense of Humor”

            A few days ago, I sniped at my husband over something truly trivial. David clings to two ancient tower Macs. When we ripped out the bedroom carpet and laid new tile, I suggested he donate them someplace. Last year, we purchased matching desks for each of our workstations. Although I suggested he ditch them then, he has them collecting dust on each side of the desk’s lower platform. Last week, David’s company announced they want his department to become permanent remote workers. My nagging about the computers snapped out as we discussed how to fit another system in his space. Almost immediately, I flagged my overreaction. Although we’ve crammed our desks into our master bedroom, the way David organizes his work area really doesn’t impact me.

                Later in the day, I apologized for snapping at him.

                He’d forgotten the entire incident. 

            In forty-one years of marriage, we’ve hurled out our frustration and anger in various arguments. In our early years, we flared over lack of money and feeling overworked and underappreciated. My narcissistic in-laws pulled me into and out of their dysfunctional dance so many times that after visits with them I either vomited or escalated into justifiable (to me) rages that took all night for recovery. Once I gave myself permission to walk away from them, my temper flashes sparked over the smaller trials and tribulations that life hands us. David’s easy going nature means he has a longer simmer time before he even heated. I can count on my hand how many times he’s actually reached boiling point in the years we’ve been together. He has a tremendously forgiving nature, always sees the best in other people’s intentions, and can forget transgressions almost as soon as they’ve happened. 

            The pandemic means we’ve spend a shitload of time together. While other friends complain about feeling trapped with their spouses since March, we’ve found a satisfying rhythm to our days. David logs into work by 8:00. I head outside to hand water the yards and garden. Around 9:30, I start my designated daily chore, log blogging time, and we both finish up around noon to break for lunch. During the afternoons, I play computer games, do a limited social media exposure, and then read for a few hours. Sometimes I binge watch on a show that I know David won’t like (lately it’s been Cold Squad a Canadian TV show from the late 90s). Most days, I cook dinner, but not always. I do another run on Facebook while cooking. 

            During that time, I skim over my feed looking for something funny to give me a giggle. Every day, I’ll snigger over some YouTube video, meme, or well written quip and hit the SHARE option to tag to David. Then I realize that the chuckle originated from David’s page! This happens multiple times daily and has been our pattern for the last six months. During the evenings, we indulge ourselves on shows like Schitt’s Creek or our favorite late night comedy. 

            I want to step away from sniping and move into snickering. Arming myself with a sense of humor may be the best way to survive these next few months. 

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Fear of Flu"

         “Did you get a flu shot this year?” asked one of my friends.

         “Nah,” I laughed. “I’d love the excuse to spend a week in bed!”

        

         My cavalier relationship with receiving flu shots stems from the fact that I haven’t suffered from the flu since a bout back in the late 70s when I was in college. If I get a shot, it’s because my annual physical nestled in the center of flu season, and the PA stuck it on her list of recommendations before she left the room.

         When I took care of Mom, I religiously received a shot since I made certain she did. We also did our mammograms together. Our team approach to healthcare meant I paid a little more attention to the predicted strains of virus “out there” than I do now.

         When reports began to flood the media that this year’s shot missed the mark, I decided not to bother with getting one. I’ve watched friends fall victim to both strains this year—and most of them received the vaccine! A recent report out of Canada states that this year’s vaccine is about 17% effective.

         I made a conscious decision not to get the shot because I don’t want to slip into a cocky attitude about the infections floating around me. An optimist by nature, I know I’d slide into thinking I’d be among the low percentage of people who’d respond well to the shot. My confidence in being safe would make me lazy in my approach to each work day.

         Instead, by not getting vaccinated this year, I’ve turned into a cleaning maniac whenever I enter a classroom. Over the last month, I’ve worked at five different campuses. That means I’ve come into contact with close to 500 students and teachers—just in classrooms. It doesn’t add in hall and cafeteria duty, or all of the hand-to-hand contact when I help load students into their parents’ cars. Usually, I think nothing about using another teacher’s keyboard and mouse. I grab dry erase board markers, use staplers, and may find myself biting onto a pencil so I won’t misplace it.

         Not this year! When I enter a classroom each morning, I find the nearest tub of Clorox wipes. I attack the mouse, keyboard, teacher’s desk until I’m certain the hard surfaces are clean. I move onto the items I know I’ll have to use—even remembering to wipe down the rope that attaches to the screen. Door knobs and broomsticks. Everything gets wiped down. I can’t disinfect everything, but I’ve developed a new habit. When I finish handling all of the students’ folders, I quickly pump sanitizer onto my hands. I make certain that I use my own pens and pencils, and I clean them off with a wipe before putting them back into my tote each day.

         Will all of these preventative measures keep me healthy? Probably not. Some little itty-bitty germ will become airborne and beeline it straight into my respiratory system. I will become a Bernie Mac episode.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman