Emily, this blog post is a bit less depressing, and I’ve decided to set the poetry aside for a while

These are long days. I spend whole minutes looking at my eyebrows in the afternoon light that slants through the top pane of the bedroom window and throws rainbows where it hits the mirror. I started using a brow serum in October, so they are about as long and thick as they’ve ever been (I spent the first 15 years of my life more or less eyebrow-less, they arrived at about the same time as my self-confidence), which is lucky, because I also compulsively pluck my eyebrows with my fingernails when I am anxious, and I am a glowing bundle of nerves. For the first time ever, my eyebrows are out-pacing my fingers. I have RSI in both my thumbs, and no visible gaps in my brows. Today I spent ten minutes thinking about what I would do if my thumbs didn’t work any more. I wouldn’t be able to type, so I wouldn’t be able to work, or write. And what would be the outlet for my nerves if I couldn’t use my thumbnails to pluck my eyebrow hairs? Perhaps I would disintegrate. 

Perhaps I will have to adopt voice software, like that used by writers when they succumb to arthritis. I will have to keep a straight face while composing my melancholic blog posts, telling my laptop: “The weather is grey, and the streets are full of people wearing masks.” I think it would be more difficult to be melancholic when intoning my despairing thoughts aloud to a silent MacBook. And it would be sophisticated software that could keep up with my mixed-up not-quite Kiwi vows. Sometimes I sound exactly like Justin Bieber. And anyway, I’m typing now, thumbs flying, so this is a problem for another day. 

I never usually take the days between Christmas and New Year off work unless I’m in New Zealand, and so it’s strange to have this time off in London. I’m not used to being on holiday here. I don’t know what to do with myself, particularly this year, when there are so few planning options. I keep scheduling walks after going for long runs, and tiring myself out, like I am my own petulant bored toddler. I watch television on the TV, and then turn off the TV, and go to the bedroom, and watch the same show on my laptop. I have downloaded at least ten excellent books that I can’t quite make myself read. The main outlets for pleasure are food and alcohol, and I am indulging voraciously in both. Come January, I will be vegan for my typical 31 days, and so I can only hope that the news is better then, because if I can’t medicate myself with cheese, it will fall 100% to negronis. 

The worst part about Christmas being over is that people will take their lights down. I love the Christmas lights, even though I’m lazy at putting up our own. Our front window is our bedroom widow, and it is typically shuttered, and blocked from the street from the hedge, to limit the number of people who can see me naked; but most of the houses around here have their lounges at the front, and Christmas trees in the bay window. For me, the more brightly, neon lit the better. I want to be dazzled and disoriented by your Christmas tree, I want to feel like I’m flying over New York city at nighttime in a hurricane. I do like counting the dead Christmas trees out on the pavement, though, so there’s that. 

I am looking forward to 2020 being over like everybody else but ugh: the long grey expanse of January and February. And then worst of all, March – March, if nothing has changed and the vaccine hasn’t gone round enough people, and we have to deal with the anniversary of Covid with no good news to carry us through. I had planned to run a 10K in January, and it’s been moved to March, and that’s the first time I’ve ever been upset by the cancellation of an athletic activity. I look back on March this year with nostalgia, because there was excitement (and dread and fear, but still excitement) around coronavirus and pandemics and the uncertainty of it all. There was electricity to the closure of the office, and setting up camp at home. Buying masks and toilet paper. Community spirit, etc, and even my cat seemed to like me more. Maybe that excitement should never have been there; almost certainly it was a gift of privilege and stupidity. But I am nostalgic for any kind of excitement. It’s dangerous to look forward to anything, even running 10K in a circle with people who are much faster than you. 

Having fixed my eyebrows, it might be time to consider my fingernails, which are disgusting as always. Maybe I will shave my legs, a victim of the cold weather. Or perhaps I will become a knitter – I got a knitting kit for Christmas. It’s always nice to consider the potential for latent talent lurking within oneself. Although knitting is probably thumb-heavy activity.

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