Martha and Me

These days, I feel a special connection, a cameraderie, with Martha Stewart. We're both in lockdown, only allowed out for a few hours every day. Of course, I don't have to wear the black ankle bracelet, and I don't have the 150-acre estate, or the probation officer, but still.

Suddenly, everyday things have become special treats. Like showering. Or washing dishes. Or changing my sheets. When did laundry become something to look forward to?

Tomorrow, I'm going to a birthday party -- an actual social event. But here's the thing: I'm not sure that I can actually string words together anymore.

I went to a diner for lunch today with my best friend (it was a working lunch, quizzing each other on mnemonics the whole time) and the waitress asked me a bunch of questions. It sort of went like this:

Waitress: How would you like your eggs?

Me: Ummm.

Waitress: White, wheat or rye toast?

Me: Umm.

Waitress: What kind of juice?

Me: I'd like my eggs scrambled.

It's like I'm on some kind of 7-second time delay. And I'm not sure I can hold up a conversation without blurting out a pneumonic device or something I've remembered, in a Tourettte's kind of way. Like: "The Fireman's Rule applies to police officers, too" or "The warranty of habitability only applies to residential leases" or "Fee simple determinables have the possibility of reverter." I have lost the fragile grasp I once had on the outside world.

I can't wait to get my brain back.