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Covid-19: No One is Wearing Wing Tipped Eyeliner

The St. Patty's Day parades were cancelled, but have no fear, my friends and I were bar hopping like college seniors, raging for all of Scranton, PA to hear. I made sure to get up early to get my hour in of swimming, except I forgot my MP3 player and I had to swim in silence, so that was deathly boring.


Homegirls and I traipsed through one of Pennsylvania's B-List cities, peeing in alleyways because the bar bathrooms were too crowded. We made friends with kids who were barely 25 and thought we were, "like, our age." I might have been stuck on the other side of the country, but I made the best of it. Instead of being an LA 4 or 5, I was probably a solid 8 in this town. Nice upgrade.


Eventually my bestie and I ended up at home. Since my parents weren't home, we did what any 30-somethings would do. We got drunk and prank called boys.


Then Monday came. We had all seen China's and Italy's citizens cooped up in their homes to stop the spread of coronavirus. But that couldn't possibly happen to us. In America, we were safe, right?


Well, it did happen to us. By 9pm that evening, all businesses were to be closed. And I really needed a mani-pedi, but by the time I heard the news, it was too late to schedule one. Only essential businesses could be open. This did not include gyms unfortunately, so there went the option of my new mermaid regimen of swimming laps. Well, this would only be a two week thing, so surely enough time had passed that my running injury was healed and I could but a solid 7 mile run a day to stay fit, right? Right? This whole stay at home thing couldn't last longer than two weeks, nope.


Ha. Ha. Although my injury didn't flame up, a 32 year old body is not the same as a 22 year old body. After running 6.5 miles that Tuesday, I could barely walk the next day. I was like a 90 year old when it came to going down those stairs. When my body finally got back to normal and I could run again, that lasted a week. Then some leg pain flared up and that put the kibosh on that whole plan.


This was going to end soon right? We could go back to going out and bars and restaurants and gyms and salons soon, right? Honestly, I don't care about going out really, I'm stuck in Pennsylvania, but I just like option of being able to make an entrance into the various dive bars.


Fast forward. It's Week 9 of this madness. My nails have gone from needing a fill to looking like brittle white trash. My hair is half gray roots and half some brassy color. Make-up usage is non-existent. I look like a Trump voter.


It gets worse. I've developed a Covid body. While I have not physically contracted the Covid-19 virus, my body is suffering from a side effect due to the inaccessibility of any means to exert physical activity. These symptoms include:


  • A mushy stomach

  • Saddlebags on thighs

  • Double chin reminiscent from freshman year of college

  • Prominent pimples resembling volcanoes along the chin and cheek area *(just scrolled through camera roll, found evidence, way too embarrassed to post)*

  • Lack of muscle tone throughout the arms including the once coveted sculpted triceps

  • And worst of all: a complete loss in self-confidence, feelings of motivation, ability to focus, or giving a shit about looking like a Trump voter

This is the reality we're living in. Days cooped up, utilizing grocery store trips to sneak in wine by carrying it in coffee cups as a make-shift hour (try it, you'll have a much better shopping experience), and exploring the abandoned downs in the middle of nowhere, PA.


I can't lie though, those days have actually been fun.



Bestie & Me on a trail walk on Easter
Concrete city in Nanticoke - abandoned coal mining "apartment" compound


*Notice the absence of make-up*


Yeah, homegirl can still do a split.

Oh, wait.... can't forget this gem:



Graffiti Alley in Centralia, PA. What brilliance.

As I write this, I still feel like a fat, deflated slob who cries when stumbling upon nudes from recent years. I'd post those, but that's like, really slutty. I refuse to put on a pair of jeans because I can't bare to see the site of a muffin top or have my thigh fat squished. Then again, jeans are for going out and we don't do that anymore, so they can rot in my closet. Scales are forbidden in my presence. I've tried to convince my parents they should go on diets and forgo their high-carb ways, but they're in their 60s and really don't give a shit anymore.


And I know as I write this, I'm not alone. We all feel like fat slobs and if anyone out there comes out of Covid with a hot body and flaunts it on social media, you're in for a beating.


I'm not going to sit here and write, "Stay Strong," "We're Alone Together," or some god awful hashtag being utilized by TV advertisements. I don't feel strong right now. I don't feel like me right now. My only silver lining is this: "One day, this too shall pass."


I'll just be wearing maxi dresses when that happens.

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