I’m Freeeeeeeeeeee. We had “the covid”, “the spicy throat”, “Rona”, “the lurgy of all lurgy’s”. Somehow my husband didn’t get it. I have no idea how he has avoided it. Maybe the rum has preserved his organs? I dunno what it is, but he thinks he’s superman right now.

I should be jumping for joy like most other people do when they reach the end of their isolation period…so why am I a little sad to have to go out and face the world again? 

I’ll tell you why. Cause I’m an introvert who does a lot of extroverted things. And by introvert, I don’t mean shy,  although I can be extremely shy in some social situations. I think I also inherited my mothers affliction of perhaps coming off as conceited when really we would just like to quietly die,  rather than make small talk to someone we don’t know. I literally run out of shit to say. My brain goes blank and I stand like a mute moron hoping like hell I’m not standing next to another weird introverted mute moron. It’s awkward. Just ask your introverted friends. They’ll know what I’m taking about. If you’re wondering who your introverted friends are, they’re the ones who don’t answer the phone if they don’t know who it is, or even sometimes when they DO know who it is. Ffs. Just text…we like that. 

So my isolation period has ended and here I am in a shopping centre. My most hated place on earth. If Hell exits, the sign on the door would say “Westfield”. I’m here biding my time while our 16 year old son finishes the course to get his L plates for his motorbike. Let’s not even go there…. That is a whole blog of its own. At least when he goes past my front window popping a mono, while his father says “oh geez, don’t look Hooch but that was a REALLY good one”, he will break his neck legally.

To sooth the pain of being in Westfield Hell, I’ve headed straight to the nail salon. I’m sitting here tapping away writing this while uncomfortable balls from the massage chair swirl their way up and down my back and give my ample arse a little jiggle. It’s meant to feel good. I feel a little violated. Meanwhile a tiny little lady scrapes the goop out of my toenails and attempts to debride the thick layer of crusty skin that resides on my heels. God bless these ladies who deal with the ugliness of old lady feet. Like most women though, I only shave my legs for the lady who does my toes. You’re welcome.

So it is back to business. Life carries on and I have to join it again, Goddammit. The calendar is filling up with the rescheduled appointments and all of the things that were put on hold for a couple of weeks.

At least I’ll have nice looking feet as I jump back into this thing we call life.

M