MY CORONAVIRUS RECEPTION

My garage is as compartmentalized as the rest of my house. There are racks on the right and left walls. The racks on the right are to hang folding chairs, umbrellas, and shopping bags. The racks on the left are to hang brooms, pails, rakes, and step ladders. The floor under the right racks is to store packaging supplies. The floor under the left racks house three big containers: one for storing items to be donated, the second is for garden tools, and the third is for gardening supplies such as mulch and fertilizers. To the far end of the right garage wall, near the garage door, hang the controls of the sprinkler system for the lawn and the vegetable garden. Near the left side of the garage door stand the garbage and recycling bins.

The house is from an era that connected the garage to the kitchen and placed the washer, dryer, water heater, and air conditioning system on an upper garage deck. A talented handyman constructed a wall and a door made of wood and screen between the upper and lower decks. 

The connections between the garage, the house, and the outside world were admirable --up to the Coronavirus pandemic. Right after it, people over sixty five started to claim their favorable status with the virus. Immediately after, my home literally became my castle! No one is to enter it or leave it from its doors, except for myself and my ordered packages. The packages are quarantined for 24 hours! All other humans threaten my very life with extermination, and trigger after-visit maddening sterilization of unseen droplets of death. 

Now I think of the garage door as the moat of my castle. The garage driveway serves as the Coronavirus reception. Visitors call for reservation. I open the garage door. They pick up their chairs from the right side racks; place them in the driveway, beside their cars, under the shade of a huge Ash tree that spreads its branches over them and their cars. Everything in the garage is accessible. The exchange of gifts and delicacies occurs on the top of the washer and dryer, with me behind the kitchen door. And with masks, everyone is safe from the sudden movements of the others. 

What happens in the winter when it is too cold to sit in the driveway under the bare branches of the Ash tree? Weren’t you listening to our president Trump? We will all be vaccinated against the Coronavirus by then. 

                                                   

FITNESS IN A CAGE!

A caged animal, I was determined to enjoy the safety of my cage. In it I avoid the monstrosity of the Coronavirus and shelter my sensitive skin from Texas summer outdoors.

I attributed the first feeling of garment-tightening around my shoulders and waist to   shrinkage. The garments definitely looked smaller, and I deposited them in my donation box.

That did not solve the outfitting problem! Just two weeks later and the garment-tightening became worst than before. This time, I reached for my scale. I weighed myself at all times of day and night, before and after eating and drinking. The scale readings changed up and down, up and down, but never down to my known average weight!

Time to use scientific problem solving; I decided to increase my level of activity to make up for lost walking, shopping, and gym attending. I woke up early and ran out to my yard, trimmed my trees and pulled out the weeds. I rushed inside to wax my furniture, organize my drawers, and spot-clean my floors. Three more weeks and my hands became swollen, my joints ached, and my neck muscles tightened. I reflected on my old belief that housework is work and not workout.

I moved a chair between the living room couch and the wide-screen TV, dragged my gym backpack beside the chair, located a Silver Sneakers program on YouTube, and started a Silver Sneakers fitness exercise.

I exercised every day of the first week!

I exercised every other day of the second week!

I exercised twice a week for a whole month!

I exercised once a week for two weeks!

I stopped!

There is no match for freedom!

I covered my hair with a baseball cap, my eyes with sunglasses, and my face with two masks; one on top of the other. I put on my walking shoes and circled around five blocks, sweating and exchanging smiles and greetings with walkers and bikers.

LETTING MY CAT OUT OF ITS BAG

There is a dent on the passenger side of my car and I’m not sure exactly when or how it happened.  Once I noticed it though, I felt obliged to do something about it. I don’t make decisions without researching and weighing the decision consequences. So I decided to let the cat out of the bag and do my research.

When my friend Wendy called me the following day, I told her about the dent. “Fix it and don’t tell your children about it,” she advised. “They will think you’re too old to drive. I’ll come with you to my repair shop if you want me to. David there has a magic touch!”

Hiking with my walking group on Lady Bird’s Lake Sunday morning, I sought Herb’s advice. “Whatever you do, Mahassen,” he said, “don’t submit an insurance claim. When I did after my latest car accident, they refused to renew my insurance.”

 But since Paula and her husband were taking me to lunch on Wednesday to celebrate my birthday, I waited for their take on the matter.”I didn’t tell you this,” Paula said, “but a few months ago, as I was backing out of the garage, my right rear-view mirror banged against the garage door and we had to replace it. Let’s look at the dent.”

So after lunch, I took Paula and her husband to my car for dent-assessment.  “Not noticeable! Right honey?” Paula asked her husband. He looked at the dent, then looked at his wife and didn’t say a word. I read “Are you crazy!” on his face. So I waited for further evaluation.

In December, my car was due for service. As my service manager was handing me the car key I asked him if I should fix the dent. “These small scratches?” he said. “Don’t worry about them.” I was not sure what scratches he meant since we were standing on the driver’s side of the car. But I decided not to worry about a dent that is unnoticeable to a car service manager.

That’s until a trucker waited for me in the parking lot of Bed, Bath & Beyond.

“I can fix this dent on the side of your car,” he said.

“No, thanks,” I said and continued to place my purchases into the car trunk.

He handed me his business card. “I’m heading now to my body shop. I have in my truck the tools to fix the dent and to paint it the exact same silver color of your car. It’ll be as good as new.”

I sighed. “It is old.” Then I tried to subtract 2006 from 2019.

The trucker didn’t budge. “I’ll charge you five hundred dollars, that’s less than half the price of fixing this dent, and I will do it right here in this parking lot,” he said.

“No, three hundred,” I said, to politely get rid of him.

“Okay. Move your car under the tree and I’ll bring my truck next to it.”

He seemed desperate for money and I didn’t have cash on me. I moved the car but stood far away from him, holding the car key and cell phone tightly inside my right pocket, and my left arm pressing on my handbag--hanging on my left shoulder.

Forty-five minutes later, the dent was still detectable and the silver paint on the dent was far from the heavenly color of the car. Near tears, I opened my handbag and started to write a check for the three hundred dollars. But the trucker jumped inside his truck and drove away.

A factual cat release story!