Masking emotions during a global pandemic

I've worked multiple jobs since I was a teenager.

I helped out in my Mum's hair salon, babysat and delivered newspapers. When I was a little older, I started waitressing and continued through college. After graduating, I waitressed, photographed events like weddings and set up sessions, was a substitute teacher, and on and on.

When I stepped into journalism full-time, I continued working multiple jobs, partially because my other jobs financially supported my full-time job and partially because, I was used to working like that.

So when COVID-19 was declared a global pandemic and Gov. Charlie Baker subsequently issued a "Stay at Home" advisory, I was reporting and waitressing — both of which were deemed "essential" fields. My restaurant is in New York and was subsequently, temporarily closed. So for the first time in a very long time, I'm working one job. In fact, I'm not even freelancing right now. But don't misunderstand, I'm not complaining. I genuinely understand why these advisories exist. For me, it's just weird.

I've always worked on a schedule. If I wanted to grab a drink or go on a date, I wrote it in my Dayplanner. If you're surprised, need I remind you I'm a print news reporter.

But now, I don't have plans. Don't get me wrong, I'm still working weird and long hours as a reporter, but now I'm realizing that I do have time to do things for myself and frankly, I don't know what I should be doing.

The first weekend I had that I wasn't covering an event or interviewing someone, I pulled out my creative pursuits that are sorely neglected, including my guitar, which needs to be tuned, and my easel, which needs new paintbrushes. I truly enjoy painting and playing, but there was a ping of guilt for not doing "work" work. So after laying out the foundations of a painting, I moved to cleaning and organizing.

After pouring myself a glass of wine, I turned my music on to a 90s alternative station and started scrubbing my shower. The acoustics of my bathroom make me feel like I totally understand the depths of what Des'ree was trying to get across in "You Gotta Be", the Goo Goo Dolls' "Iris" and Melissa Etheridge's "I'm The Only One." Amidst these powerful performances, I was able to make my bathroom sparkling clean. I seem to manage fine until a jam with a fast beat or a really slow, sappy ballad comes on. Then, of course, I dance. Years of ballet and other forms of dance coalesce into this form of rhythmic distraction that leads me to try on every article of clothing I own and start to create new piles of unfinished organization until I end up watching New Girl from start to finish, for the fourth time through. My neighbors, on the other hand, seem to be taking a different route. Usually, I don't hear anything from them. I have the first floor of a renovated house.

My neighbors to the left of me have adopted a baby rhinoceros that rolls through the hallway that abuts my bedroom. In addition to that, said neighbors have decided to obsessively vacuum the hallway at or before 8 a.m. Every. Single. Day. So when I've been up writing until 3 a.m. and feeling especially productive, that vacuum comes banging against the hallway wall, reverberating through my headboard. GOOD MORNING FUCKER, the vacuum squeals. Prior to this, I wasn't sure they owned a vacuum. The neighbor upstairs has taken up clogging. In the evening, just as I'm about to fall asleep, I can hear her practice the folk dance striking heel-toe, heel-toe, 16 million times up and down the stairs. After two weeks, I'm going to be honest, she hasn't improved. She's also tried to learn another language — one that includes a lot of screaming and the phrase "I hate you" in loud volumes. She practices on the phone usually after she's finished clogging.

While I'm not sure any one of us is more productive than the other, I do know that we're all experiencing a roller coaster of emotions, so I try to refrain from losing my cool. I have, however, learned a few phrases of the shout language and have started to wear pumps when I break into mid-day dance parties.

You win some, you lose some.