It’s garbage collection day in my neighborhood. The trucks just passed our house. To avoid possible contamination, I will wait 48 hours to bring in the empty containers.
In the past, this quarantine period has driven my wife nuts. She referred to it as laziness, forgetfulness and lack of responsibility, but, more accurately, I was just ahead of my time. See, I was self-quarantining long before it was encouraged.
It’s not all positive news. Several events I had planned to attend have been shut down — various school trips for grandkids, bad history group meetings, and the annual reunion of the Wasatch Cannoneers — because of the coronavirus.
I could call it a scare even though I am not. Scared, I mean. I’m only vaguely concerned. Fear doesn’t enter into it until I start hearing the news media report cases of cannibalism — which could be any day now.
But even vaguely concerned is an increase in alarm from my previous indifference.
It’s because COVID-19 is now hitting closer to home. At least four people I know have the virus — Utah Jazz players Donovan Mitchell and Rudy Gobert, as well as Hollywood stars Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson.
These people don’t know me, of course, and probably would avoid me if they did, virus or not. But my own familiarity with them has amped up my efforts to “self-quarantine.”
I already work from home and have for years. But now it has more cachet. Saying that I’ve self-quarantined is a step up from saying I don’t commute because I’m unmotivated, hate traffic and public transportation.
Lately, things have become more intense. My wife can’t send me on errands as much now, because I whine that she’s trying to kill me.
Me • “You must want me to get sick.”
Her • “Puh-leeze. You’ve been sick in the head since we got married.”
There was more, mostly about her insisting that I’m immune to the coronavirus because I am a virus. That hurt. Almost.
The errands — yeah, I end up going — have gotten easier. Thanks to a bit of self-preservation, there are no long lines or crowded spaces around an old guy who suddenly sneezes.
It’s just seasonal allergies but try convincing a bunch of masked and gloved people pushing shopping carts filled with toilet paper of that. I’m instantly regarded as the Pale Horseman of the Apocalypse.
Most of the items my wife sends me out to get are pointless. Fortunately, I’ve come up with substitutions for many of those made scarce by hysteria.
Like toilet paper. Yesterday, I realized I’ve been wasting money on this “essential” my entire life after watching the dog scoot around on the lawn. I haven’t suggested this one yet. Still waiting for the right moment.
Other substitutions for self-quarantine necessities are:
Water — Beer.
Hand sanitizer — Gasoline siphoned from a lawn mower.
Gloves — Oven mitts.
Masks — Plastic wrap and a drinking-straw snorkel.
Aspirin — Again beer.
I have a long list of other self-quarantine supplies, but I’ll keep those to myself.
Why? Because with the prospect of more schools closing and kids staying home, we will be pushed to the limits of survival. And if anyone survives this cabin fever epidemic we’re fixing to have, it’s going to be me.
Robert Kirby is The Salt Lake Tribune’s humor columnist. Follow Kirby on Facebook.
