One of my besetting quirks (or maybe it’s a sin?) is nostalgia. I tend to wax nostalgic over even the worst times of my life. Maybe others share that quirk, and maybe it’s a human quirk. Or maybe it’s peculiar to only a small number of people. Maybe it would be different if I had had objective, according-to-Hoyle “bad” times in my life.
So I find now, in summer 2020, I’m nostalgic about the good old days, in late winter 2020, when the shelter in place orders were just beginning. I might have been a little hopeful then that things would resolve in a couple weeks or a month. But otherwise, it was quite a despairing time, at least for me. It was something I knew I would have to endure. However quickly it might be resolved, the bad parts were still ahead and there was little to look forward to in the near future. It wasn’t a good feeling.
And now, I look back on those days and miss them. Maybe I’d feel differently if Covid had harmed me more directly, or if I wasn’t so well off to begin with.
But I miss it. I miss the sinking feeling as the numbers of new cases started mounting. I miss being confined inside when it was cold. I miss the shortages (which are still here but less severe) (which never affected me very severely in the first place). I miss doing laundry by hand (though I don’t miss it because it sucks, and I only stopped doing it last week during my first visit in three months to the laundromat and I may or may not be too scared to go back next week).
I have lived a (mostly) charmed life, but these last few months have been among the worst of times, at least for me. And yet I miss them. In a few months time, if I’m still alive, I’ll probably be missing now.