by Yorick Schmit
Translation by Sandra Schmit
Exactly twenty-six steps. I counted them, more than once. More than I would have liked. From the living room into the bedroom. And back again. I can walk the distance with my eyes closed – despite the heaps of old paper and blue bags full of plastic bottles piling up in the apartment. Are the recycling centres open? Probably not. One, two, three, four… there and back again. Hour after hour. Day after day. After a week on the laptop – including complimentary red eyes and aching back – I decided that walking was the healthier option. Sometimes I make a stop at the window. Bright sunshine on empty streets. Pink blossoms between grey asphalt. Elderly people walking their dogs, families with small children. Maybe now and then the odd mask on a face. Where is the crisis?
Sometimes I try to meditate, but it tends to make me fall asleep. A couple of dumbbells in the corner, unused. Since the beginning of the crisis I have gained three kilos. With more to come, for sure. Lately I’m resisting the temptation to open the fridge every half hour. An empty fridge means queueing in front of the supermarket, a coughing fit between aisles of canned food, and the by now familiar riots over the last roll of toilet paper. I don’t need that. So I’m fasting.
I wonder whether I should make my own protective mask. There are plenty of tutorials on the internet. But the WHO and the Robert-Koch Institute said: Masks are of no use. Unless it’s for infected people or those in mission critical occupations.
Mission critical? I’m not mission critical. I’m supposed to just stay put in my apartment. My greatest fear is that the internet will crash and that I will have to make do with myself. The person looking at you from the bathroom mirror in the morning is not good company. How many privileged “home office workers” currently have to admit this to themselves.
I’m walking. Twenty-six steps. Every day. How lucky I am.