Do you have a history of severe reaction / anaphylaxis to vaccines?
I’d waited so long to read those words. No.
The needle jabbed. The bandaid stuck. My cells read the mNRA’s vaccine’s instructions.
And there I was, finally a proud card-carrying member of Club Moderna, off to frolic in the land of communal salsa bowls, crowded concerts and forbidden kisses. Or more accurately, I was still sitting under the harsh neon lights of a big-box store’s pharmacy, watching shoppers score deals for once elusive Clorox wipes. The seconds ticked by as I stuck around the required 15 minutes, just to make sure a body part didn’t swell up.
Other than the sore upper arm that would soon follow, I thought I’d feel more from this triumph of modern medicine — like a rush of jubilation akin to a Mary Tyler Moore twirl and hat throw, or the exhilaration of watching a mid-court buzzer beater shot swish through the net.
Yet, my non-reaction was a common reaction. In fact, a case of the blahs had become as rampant as house bidding wars among urbanites coveting the suburbs.
The pandemic had definitely changed perceptions. Productivity was no longer contingent upon a cubical. Sweat pants sent Brooks Brothers into bankruptcy. And when the NCAA tournament marked the end of a very long winter, “March Madness” better described the flinch experienced when watching two TV characters enter an enclosed room without masks.
Rewired brain aside, I knew it was not March. That whole “I forget what day it is” schtick had gotten old anyways. Furthermore, my days in post-vaccine purgatory were numbered — 14 days until 80% immunity, 28 days until the second shot, 42 days until getting slingshotted back into the world.
It kind of felt like the start of a six-week layover in LaGuardia Airport. Yet, loitering over magazines and tubes of fruity Mentos in the Hudson News store was quite palatable when I was holding a one-way ticket to Everyday Life.
Everyday Life (cue nostalgic music)… I remembered it well. There were movie theaters with sticky floors, subway cars with no place to sit, and hot yoga classes with strangers’ feet so close to your face you could tickle their toes. It was no overwater bungalow in Bora Bora, but at this point, it deserved the cover of every travel magazine.
Spring had arrived in Connecticut and all around me there was a great awakening. The dogwood and cherry blossoms bloomed as pastel gingham shirts emerged — everyone strolled around like happy picnic tablecloths. Sailboats made an appearance on Long Island Sound. Diners lined the sidewalk of Greenwich Avenue, turning their faces toward the sky like sun-starved plants. Mimosa-brunch music flowed out of restaurant doors.
The days dripped by and as my antibody levels rose, Everyday Life dangled in front of me in all its juiciness.
Until the pandemic, patience really wasn’t something our society was priding itself on. We’re an on-demand culture, with an attitude best exhibited by Veruca Salt’s impassioned performance of “I Want it Now!” in the golden egg room of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Need a dog walker? A dragon roll? A date? Everyone knows there’s an app for anything right at our fingertips. We want it now!
Fortunately, during the indecipherable January to March stretch, I’d studied up on patience by watching “Palm Springs,” a Hulu indie where two wedding guests get trapped in a time loop amid the desert, and repeatedly wake up to the same day. It’s a more youthful “Groundhog Day” with cactuses.
So I waited for my Hollywood ending…
And as I waited, I remembered that old adage about how much your life can change in a year. A year ago, I was quarantining my groceries in a sad little corner, under the the fuzzy personal discretion of how long a novel respiratory illness might live on a box of Organic Honey Nut Morning O’s.
And now? Now I was asking friends which vaccine they received with the enthusiasm of a seven-year-old asking classmates which teacher they were assigned to for second grade.
“Oh, they gave you Miss. M? Me too! Glad I didn’t get Mr. J! See you at recess.”
When I crossed the fourteen-day marker and my vaccination reached 80% effectiveness, I wasn’t 100% percent sure what that meant. However, it seemed like the time had come to venture some place I’d never been before.
I waited until night fell. Armed with a Clorox wipe, I swung the door open. The small gym in my huge apartment building was deserted. Where was everyone? They were probably busy saying “no” to things they didn’t want to resume post vaccination — like small talk or working out.
There, what stood before me had become a mythical creature of sorts. I’d heard the stories, but hadn’t yet experienced one. Now, I basked in the technological glory of the communal piece of exercise equipment. Behold, the Peloton!
I all too remembered my first cycling class nearly a decade ago. Deafening umph-umph music blared in compact bike-to-bike quarters on a way-to-early Sunday morning. A circle of candles glowed around the instructor, as though he were a fitness Buddha. There was little to no air flow. And as the spandex-clad set pedaled with fervor, they were bestowed the spiritual wisdom of the revered instructor who shouted mantras into his headset microphone.
“Let your hair be messy! Let go of perfection!”
If I had let go of anything in that class, it would have been my dignity. I envisioned myself fainting to the ground in the stagnant, sweaty air — my feet still clipped into the bike pedals.
But that evening, as I saddled up for my inaugural ride on the Peloton, I made a joyful revelation. Instead of acting as high-intensity spiritual gurus, Peloton instructors all seemed to be jockeying for lead singer in a rock band. Making eyes to the camera, they sang with pure heart, if not tune, when the playlist hit their favorite song.
Time began passing more quickly as I pedaled away for 30 or 45 minutes on some days. (I was not like that woman in the 2019 Christmas commercial.) I soon discovered the surprising satisfaction of beating other Peloton riders on the digital leaderboard. Sure, on one ride you might be getting crushed by a 70-year-old man in North Carolina. But when you pull ahead of another cyclist with seven minutes left and then leave him in the dust? Well, you might as well be sport-car racer Ken Miles (played by Christian Bale in “Ford v Ferrari”).
Now suddenly, amidst all this stationary bike excitement, the mask mandate was lifted. I didn’t even get to wear my new summer collection. In Whole Foods, I took a double take when spotting noses and lips in the freezer aisle. Then came that momentous day when I hit fully vaccinated status and went maskless in the produce section. I felt downright naked.
As for my Hollywood ending, it was anticlimactic. At last, I felt motivated enough to replace my watch battery that died last summer. And poof, just like that, time restarted.
Yet, when I stared at the second hand that now ticked again, the future still felt so uncertain. But if there was one thing the past year reminded us, it was that nothing is ever certain in this life. It never was and it never will be.
So what was I to do after that thought? Well, I just took another spin on the Peloton. After all, as we reentered society following what may have been the most unimaginable collective experience of our lifetime, there was only one thing I knew for sure — swimsuit season was finally here.
