It's August. In a typical year, I love this month. School supplies are on sale, and I spend most of the month scurrying around the county buying sharp new markers, notebooks, and organizational stuff to make my classroom a magical place. I work on bulletin board design, updating my syllabi, and start planning the first week or so of ice-breaker activities.
None of that is happening this year.
Since March 13th, I've left my house less than three dozen times. When I do, I scurry out, grab what I need, and scurry home. I Norwex myself, my shoes, and my car, and shower when I get home. My social circle of people I've been closer than 10 feet for more than a minute or so is less than a dozen people.
I'm a neurotic mess. I'm not doing a Target run for school supplies, because it's risky. I'm not shopping for cool Llama chairs on clearance at Walmart for fun flexible seating, because they are verboten by the School COVID police. I'm struggling to design instruction, because how do you plan for the myriad of possible scenarios, and do so effectively?
I'm not sleeping. Sure, I fall asleep, and then 1:30 comes along with weird nightmares where I'm in a giant sterile maze with students seated in individual corners talking to each other through those whisper tubes that they have on playgrounds. They can hear each other, I can't hear any of them, and I have no earthly idea what the topic of my course even is as I scramble through the maze trying to pick up a clue. My principal calls my cellphone and asks where my updated syllabus is. Seriously? If I had a syllabus, I'd know the topic of the course.
On Friday, I went out. I drove with a friend to a The Stitching Post in Maryland. It felt safe, there was hand sanitizer that was mandated upon entry, and no more than four patrons were allowed in a very spacious store. In fact, I'd estimate that store to be more than three times the size of my classroom. We made one other stop to pick up an item, attempted to go to Trader Joe's, where 25 people stood, socially distanced, awaiting entry, in the rain. As much as I like TJ, it wasn't worth the risk or the rain. We ate Arby's in the car on the way home. We were gone for less than five hours, on the road for most of that time, and I came home absolutely exhausted.
It was Friday night when I realized that what I had experienced is NOTHING like what is about to happen to my world. Early Saturday morning I dreamed that I was becoming a leper, but the diagnosis date was not until August 25th. Since that time, I've been strategizing how to cram summer into the three weeks I have left. I seriously considered completely quarantining myself for two full weeks and then hosting Christmas in August, because it's VERY likely that I will be too dangerous a risk to be around the Christmas tree with family in December, a mere two days after winter break begins. (Nobody can quarantine for 48 hours, and expect not to spread a yet-undiagnosed virus, right?)
I've pretty much abandoned the August Christmas idea, because I can't possibly get all the shopping done, and it's too hot to have the oven going to make all those cookies, let alone find a quality tree this time of year. Instead, I'm now treating myself like a therapy dog in training -- forcing myself out to do unnecessary errands. Today, I am proud to report, that I went to the pharmacy, and lingered long enough to look at greeting cards. I also bought a new welcome mat for my front door, which is ironic, considering how few people are actually welcome to cross my threshold. I thought about going to TJ Maxx and sniff around, get used to people, see what's there -- you know, therapy dog-like -- in an attempt to move myself into a more advanced state of socialization.
Yet, my brain is still thinking that seems a bit too risky to attempt such an adventure.
So right now, I'm celebrating the little things. The first tomato ripened on the vine and was quite handsome in size. I shared a photo of it on Facebook, mostly to show my neighbor, Sharon, that the first one had been picked. Nearly 100 people LIKED the darned tomato. Seriously?
Last night, I dreamed that fewer people acknowledged my obituary than my tomato photo when it was posted on social media. I spent from 2 - 5 am watching Golden Girls and Frazier, praying for sleep.
I love my job, I love my students, and I adore working in the field of Gifted Ed. The closer I get to my impending leprosy, the weirder things are going to be, and the less sleep I predict I will get, as I play this giant game of chicken, waiting for a virtual start to the school year to be announced. Should I retire? My head says yes. My heart says no.
Compassion for everyone is definitely in short supply. If it were available at Target, I'd be head-first into the cardboard bins, buying individual supplies for everyone, COVID Leprosy be damned.
And so I wait, and hope, and ask that you care more about people than tomatoes on social media. 
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