Here’s what SLO County residents hate the most about COVID — from masks to sanitizer
COVID-19 sucks.
That may seem a little flippant, when it’s been a full year since the World Health Organization officially declared we were in a coronavirus pandemic.
It’s a somber anniversary. Since then, the deadly virus has killed 2.6 million people worldwide, equal to the entire population of Chicago. So many lives lost, so many more shattered.
We could concentrate on the horrific tragedies of the past year. We could focus on the pandemic’s power to suck away the joy, glee and anticipation in our lives — replacing them with suffering, pain, loss and the fear that we could be next.
But with masks on our faces and hope in our hearts, we’ve taught ourselves that it can help to find the humor in our situation.
Sometimes, it’s all about how you look at a situation. Think about how a sucky little pandemic irritation made you giggle in the past year, somehow making a tough time a bit easier.
Take face masks, for one thing.
Finding them. Keeping them on. Breathing. Mumble talking. Sweating and zits. Remembering the mask only after you’ve walked away from your locked car and somebody reminds you.
What about silly questions about masks?
I saw this one online: “Can wearing a mask during sex prevent COVID-19?” Maybe it depends on how athletic you are.
My online pal Kim Miller said it really sucks “not to be able to see people smile.”
Then there’s the anonymity of mask wearing in general, which can be especially annoying if you’re in law enforcement.
How many times have you walked right past your masked-up neighbor, co-worker or boss without recognizing them? What about your wife? Oops.
I’m going to order a cap or badge that reads: “Hello, my name is Kathe Tanner, and I’m COVID-19 vaccinated!”
It’ll cover all the bases and save me so much trouble.
Just try keeping a straight face wearing a mask and glasses during a vision refraction test on your eyes. Try to focus on that giant “E” on the chart through the breath steaming up your glasses AND the refraction tool. (it’s called a phoroptor, by the way.)
What’s really sucked was the lack of loving hugs.
But we can snicker about Son Brian’s brief, elbow-to-elbow taps, a clunky pandemic dance maneuver that doesn’t quite replace quick hugs, handshakes and, for the really cautious, even fist bumps.
He calls it his “chicken wing thang.”
I can’t decide if it looks more like a hip hop move or the Tin Woodman.
Other little annoyances sucked but made us smile and ruefully shake our heads or chuckle.
Have you ever reached for a disposable sanitizing cloth with which to wipe your grocery cart’s handle, only to discover that the cloth container was empty? What about discovering there’s no trash container into which you can toss the used sanitizing cloth?
Remember when you thought it hurt to get lemon juice or salt on a cut finger? That’s nothing compared to the sting of hand sanitizer — over and over and over again.
And if you bandage a cut, the Band-Aid will come off the first time you wash your hands or take off a medical-grade glove.
If you’re prone to dry skin, all that handwashing and sanitizing might leave you with hands that feel rough enough to sand the paint off a Tesla.
What else sucked? I reached out to my friends and family members across San Luis Obispo County and the country for suggestions.
Sharon McCartney echoed a frequent COVID-related complaint about putting on “about 30 pounds.” I guess pandemic weight gain is second cousin to the so-called “freshman 15” some of us experienced in college.
Some said that they’d actually gotten sick of sourdough bread, after a year-long bakeoff.
Jennifer Wharton said it sucked “learning to enjoy sitting outside to visit with friends while under five blankets and wearing winter clothes.”
Our granddaughter Kelsey Brown, a nurse who lives in Reno, Nevada, said it sucked to have to “double the size of our hospital … in a parking garage!”
“Zoom meetings suck,” Diana Gorman-Teetzel said, “even though they’re a blessing for staying in touch.”
Zoom’s learning curve really sucked, she said.
I hear it all the time: “You’re muted.” “You need to mute.” “How do I turn on the video?” “I can’t see everybody. How come can’t I see everybody?”
And about those masks?
Son Brian had just adjusted his mask’s placement yet again when, all of a sudden, he let out a seismic belch, at least a 6.5 on the Brian Burp Richter Scale.
The mask flew out about four inches from his mouth, and then the elastic snapped it sharply back into place.
I started to laugh. Then I guffawed, and gasped out, “No wonder you can’t keep your mask on!”
He started giggling, and then we couldn’t stop. We were still snickering in spurts 15 minutes later.
Sucky-silly? Yes. But restorative.
Hey, if it can make us laugh during a pandemic, more power to it. Even if it sucks.
