Tony Fauci and I are both from Brooklyn.
Did you ever get up in the morning, look in the bathroom mirror and think, “That can’t be right?” Today, after four days of coughing and sleeping non-stop because of omicron (yes, I tested positive after testing negative,) the image in my mirror was something that could be weaponized to deter alien invasions. Oh, my gosh. Who is that?
I have this thing about being prepared for the day when I am not at my best. I try to fix things with stuff I bought at the drugstore cosmetic counter. I don’t know if makeup fools anyone else, but it’s a kind of therapy, at least that is what I tell myself. I know that I’m not fooling anyone. Today would take extra effort or more like mind over sur-reality.
I could find my mouth and brush my teeth, which themselves had developed a kind of fuzziness with a tinge of burned toast, but my lips? Where were they? Upon closer inspection I found them. My lips were a slight line of pink somewhere below my nose…which was a darker shade of pink because of blowing it. And, then! More off-putting than the rest, there was my hair. Have you seen the movie “Beetlejuice?” Well, Beetlejuice’s hair style and mine are indistinguishable. Brushing it made it worse.
I looked through my stash of potions, each of which promises to return my skin to a more youthful state. None could not undo the pasty, dried out, wrinkled state of my face, not even a combination of retinol with humectants and creams. Frightening!
After additional rummaging amidst the drawer of cosmetics, I found that I had fortunately purchased a tube of CC cream that guarantees to cover all unwanted iterations of human skin. It even came with a brush. So, there I was, holding on to the sink edge fighting off-and-on vertigo and painting my face with this goo. It covered pretty well. Now, I looked like a light bulb punctuated by blood-shot blue eyes with no eyebrows or lashes. Ever resourceful, I rummaged again in my kit of cosmetics and found a pencil that is supposed to draw on eyebrows. After several tries, I came to the conclusion that both eyebrows should look somewhat the same. I wiped it all off and started over, eventually deciding that since I wasn’t going anywhere, it didn’t matter what I looked like. The cats could care less.
Then, too, if you are sick, shouldn’t you look sick? If that is true then I’ve passed that bar. Even my minimum grooming standards were crumbling in the face of COVID.
Face back to today’s normal, I tottered downstairs to have coffee. I thought, “A good breakfast will make me feel so much better.” Sure. Coffee and an egg tasted blah … nothing. Without a functioning sense of smell, taste is moot. I have rarely missed a meal and anyone who knows me or even seen me from a distance, can vouch for that as can my forever membership in Weight Watchers. Hey, I was even hungry while in labor. Maybe I should take this more seriously.
For some bizarre reason I decided that the floor in the family room needed attention. It took me an hour using a broom, resting every few minutes to completion … well completion isn’t the right word, but it will have to do. I had to check the symptoms of the virus to see if the need to spruce up a floor was important. It wasn’t. Delusional is a good word here.
For the rest of today I am giving up on trying to look like I am healthy. I will practice lolling around, watching reruns of “ER,” hoping that Mucinex D will return my sense of smell, snoozing and writing this column. I will reread it before I send it in because, in this state, who knows?
Maybe I should call Tony Fauci.
