There Are Things I’ve Not Seen Or Worn For Months And They Probably Think I’m Dead
I had never anticipated that a time would come in my life when I’d have to give up on socialising entirely. Sure, I’m not much of an extrovert, and I go out just to dress up, but everyone has some form of social interaction that they enjoy – whether its a rave or something more casual like board games night. If someone had asked me in 2019 if I saw myself cooped up in my bedroom and getting a full eight hours of sleep during summer, I’d refer them to a psychiatrist. The future is not in our hands (‘Dark’ fans, shut up. Just don’t say it), and with the lockdown still going strong in June, we have to accept that.
But who, pray tell, is going to explain this to my fancy clothes? They don’t know there’s a pandemic. They’re probably sitting in my wardrobe, folded away nicely, thinking I might have died. And I know they’re mourning me, because how dare I pass away without letting them see the musty inside of a shady bar one last time? How could I betray the new ones so by dying before featuring them on my Instagram feed? If everything – living and non living – has a purpose, then my brand new outfit has not fulfilled hers.
At this point, my heels are likely placing bets on which pair will have the privilege of giving me shoe bites while I’m being buried in them. “Gone too soon,” whispers my new pair of boots, who were so looking forward to winter. “A tragedy, really.”
But the one most heartbroken about this sudden turn of events, is my bathing suit. She’s not used to being unused for an entire summer. Even when the lockdown ends, who knows when pools will open up? I’m going to have to be dead to her for a long, long time. And it pains me to break her heart this way.
There’s still one more dear friend I haven’t been able to say goodbye to – the hot wax at my salon. I know she’s started planning my funeral, because she’s a real one. I dread the day I have to tell her that I’ve not only been forced to abandon her, but I’ve also cheated on her with a razor. To my loyal hot wax, I am so sorry.
My jeans. They probably think I’m dead or have gotten too fat to fit into them. My favourite pair might actually heave a sigh of relief since I won’t be stuffing my butt into them and trying to fasten that button while hopping around the room. It’s a whole workout. They won’t miss me, methinks.
He’s the first thing I see when I get to work and it’s where all my stuff is. My desk at work. It probably thinks I am dead and he’s going to get passed on to someone new. Or maybe it’s feeling rather abandoned and in that case, I just want to hug it and make it feel better, right after I have rubbed sanitiser all over it.
But hey, I know for a fact that the day I seemingly crawl out of my grave and return to social life once more, the friends I’ve had to leave behind are going to breathe a sigh of relief, and we’re going to have a great time together.