The pandemic is getting to me.
Baerlic’s Myld Stallyns is an English golden mild ale. I’ve never heard of such a thing either, so don’t feel bad if you’re puzzled. It doesn’t quite have the bready qualities of a great Kolsch, it’s not Pilsner style malty either, though it does have a similar bite on the finish; very, crisp, very suitable for chicken strips.
I miss chicken strips. I miss my old pattern of sleep. I miss knowing where to put my sense of dread. The pandemic is getting to me.
The good thing about being able to still leave the house is that, wandering through various neighborhoods, I can see people being actively kind, aware, and considerate. They look for ways to keep themselves distant from each other, they sit in lawn chairs on their friend’s lawn, everybody safely apart, chatting.
All these ways we try to reassure each other that we are not alone, but rather alone together. All these new-but-old-but-new manners of approaching a situation no one has lived through before.
Down here, on the ground floor, that’s where it’s done. Where you get to actually see people doing better by one another, friends and strangers alike. Where the groundwork for being better is laid, because by any reasonable calculation, it is going to get worse, soon.
Not everyone, of course-even as I’m writing, some fool has sped down a residential street, ego assured that since nobody is out, he can do whatever he wants.
But enough people. Enough that it matters, for now, and for later when being kind becomes harder.
Because the pandemic is getting to me. And I need to know that it matters.