To slow coronavirus in Beaufort County, residents will need to stop being themselves | Opinion
A friend sent me a meme today of a stuffed monkey with an abashed side-eye expression on its face — the kind of look that says, “Oopsy, I hope no one noticed that.”
Written above the monkey was this: “When you find out your normal daily lifestyle is called ‘quarantine.’”
Oopsy. I had hoped no one noticed that.
My friend, like me, is one of the many introverted homebodies out there who heard the words “social distancing” and smile-whispered to herself, “I’ve been training for this moment my whole life.”
For once we get to be socially distant without being called aloof or mistaken as arrogant.
For once we get to say “No” to an invitation without needing to rehearse a plausible excuse that leaves no room for “solutions.”
For once, we get to stay inside without guilt ... while we do our part for the country by helping slow the spread of a deadly virus in a world that is on the brink of economic and social collapse with absolutely no contemporary or directly relevant context to guide us.
There’s not really much to celebrate with that last one, is there?
The coronavirus presents us with a whole new reality, obviously.
Over the next few days, weeks and months, every single one of us will find out just how much we didn’t know about humanity until now — and just how much truth we’ve avoided about ourselves.
Me? I’ve already learned that I am not a big “toilet paper enthusiast.”
To start with, I don’t really enjoy talking about toilet paper as much as everyone else seems to right now.
And I am absolutely shocked by how many liars there are out there.
This entire time these toilet paper hoarders have been telling us that if their homes were to ever catch on fire and they could rescue just one thing, it would be “pictures of their loved ones.”
We’ve seen how you act in a crisis, you maniacs. We know what’s first and foremost on your mind. We know you’re rescuing that toilet paper from the inferno.
And guess what. The next time we non-hoarders ask you what three things you’d bring to a deserted island, the first word out of your shelf-clearing mouths better be “Cottonelle” or the friendship’s over.
Deep breaths.
Another thing I’ve learned: I’m not as socially distant of a person as I’d thought I was.
My facial expression says, “Don’t you dare hug me.”
My body language screams, “No really, don’t do it.”
But, turns out, I’m actually kind of a hugger.
In fact, last night I accidentally hugged someone outside the furniture-free, disinfectant-smelling Starbucks in Bluffton.
That’s right, furniture free. They turned all their tables and chairs upside down and piled them to the side of the room so Beaufort County’s very own bored-and-thirsty virus-spreaders wouldn’t be tempted to hang out in defiance of CDC recommendations.
Starbucks literally had to remove its chairs to keep us from destroying the universe.
I promise you, I don’t want to destroy the universe.
And yet I went to Starbucks.
And yet I hugged someone there.
I spent all weekend warding off bad touches from coronavirus-deniers, people who seemed to interpret my freedom to choose smart hygiene as an act of liberal elitism. “No hug, Liz? More people die of the flu, you snowflake-y socialist!”
Relax, I’m not a “socialist.” But so what if I were? Like it or not, we’re all in this together no matter what our politics.
And it’s not going to be like it was during all the hurricane evacuations. We can’t drive away from this.
Whoa. How sad is that? I’m wistful for our hurricane evacuations.
That’s how “not easy” this is going to be.
Particularly not for us here in Beaufort County, a place people consciously chose as their retirement community BECAUSE of its social offerings, because of the prospect of new friends and active lifestyles and an abundance of restaurants and bars and live music and other structured fun.
Beaufort County loves its social life.
Think about how many times you’ve gone to lunch in Bluffton and seen a table of 10 or more people. I’m telling you, it’s more than probability would allow.
And how often have you heard someone reference their “book club” here? More times than there are books on Oprah’s list.
Look at the sheer number of festivals we have each year. It’s at least 10,000.
At one festival, people SHARED A SINGLE GIANT MEATBALL.
Strangers — strangers! — ate one meatball together.
That’s how social we are here.
We are so attached to our social agendas in this community that if you were to look at Willy, the RBC Heritage’s Scottish man-mascot, you’d see violent bruise marks all over his arms today from the cold, dead gripping of the past week.
When did Heritage get canceled? Days after it seemed inevitable and only after the coronavirus had every single plaid-wearing back pressed up against the wall.
Only after the coronavirus gave them its last ultimatum.
“Let go of him,” the virus said to the plaidbacks. “Let go of the Scottish man-mascot. Give him back his fancy walking stick. Let him be on his way so that you all may live.”
