When the pandemic hit New York back in March, I could not relate to these sourdough-making folks. How do you have time for this? Me? I was neck-deep in deadlines, organizing a move to California, with two kids remote learning and a husband who'd been across the country since September. I was busy AF and stressed out.
As months eked forward, we finally moved, "school" ended and I trimmed my work schedule. (The kids have no camp, no school, and no friends here yet. Someone had to be somewhat on-duty for them.) And now I understand the sourdough people. Quarantine is boring and frustrating and never ending. Bread making is the balm, I suppose. I don’t really want that balm, though. Instead, I miss the constant hustle and strategizing and kids-and-I-teamwork of the early days. Yes, I had a near anxiety attack every Saturday morning, but all of the activity kept me so distracted and so focused at the same time.
Now, I don't know what to do with myself. I take on small work projects that I can successfully tackle at the dining room table between constant interruption. I walk the dog. I harass kids daily to do any number of masked, social-distanced activities and hope they accept at least one. I text friends back in New York and try not to talk incessantly to the few neighbors that I've just met.
I know I should read more, listen to more podcasts, hang things on the walls of the new place, write letters, create a go-to experts spreadsheet for work, finish (and start) a ton of essay ideas, pitch stories to editors, go on long solo walks, get back on my stationary bike, open those workout bands I bought two years ago, try to figure out how to make friends in a new city during a pandemic, and on and on. But, man, I can't even handle the sourdough right now.