“Speaking of the dog, she is restricted to the length of my leash, no running rampant in the hills like the old days. ”

I am waking up. No alarm clock set or needed and still I am opening my eyes before 6AM. I have a little bit of a sore throat. The fact that I have a little bit of a sore throat every single morning I wake up in the high mountains of Idaho offers no buffer against the anxiety that ensures that I will not return to sleep. The jolt of angst is like a little shot of espresso, getting me up and at ‘em. Walking to the bathroom I evaluate the contours of this particular sore throat: sharp, dull, tonsils, concentrated, diffuse? I expand my investigation to include exploring whether I also have a little tickle in my chest, in my, god forbid, respiratory tract. I cough just to make sure I don’t have a cough.

Looking myself in the eye, in the mirror, I say, out loud, “This is ridiculous, Ann.” I ask my reflection, “Did you think your morning sore throat was anything to worry about before Covid?” Before Covid? Wait a minute. There was a before Covid? And if there was, what did it feel like?”

It did not feel like this. This feels like ground hog day on steroids. I definitely do not want to encounter this invisible public enemy #1: coronavirus. A novel virus they tell us. Novel, the adjective: new or interesting in an unusual way. Yup, they got that one right. “Novel” now added to a whole host of words I may never use again, like “quid pro quo” and “unprecedented” and “shelter in place” and “social distancing”.

I have washed my hands so often they are raw and have just a little bit of cracking which I determine is huge red flag. Those cracks might look tiny but to this insipid virus they are wide open double doors. Gloves.

I launder everything all the time. This gives me some peace of mind and also some additional steps on my tracker. I had been taking Hailey (our labradoodle) for walks wearing my skiing neck gaiter until I realized that I was getting no fresh air and therefore might be putting myself at risk for carbon monoxide poisoning. I also realized that in the 4 miles of our trek, on our still 20-degree mornings, we see no one. Not that it’s not out there somewhere, lurking.

Speaking of the dog, she is restricted to the length of my leash, no running rampant through the hills like the old days. Days when a fellow dog might inadvertently pass something on to her in the process of the greeting dance all dogs do. This makes her cry sometimes. Hey, this is hard on all of us. It’s made me cry too.

We have our food delivered, leaving a tip for the delivery person in an envelope taped to the door. My definition of hero, a word I will be using, has swelled to include all those making sure people are safe and can eat and get medical care and learn and get information and get where they need to go. It includes all the people taking care of themselves and their families and setting hard limits and caring for neighbors and sending notes and posting words of encouragement and hope. At the end of the day, I am blessed beyond measure and my neurosis are conquered by gratitude every time. Now, I’m going to go wash my hands.