We were doing everything they told us to do. We washed our hands relentlessly. We stayed home and ordered take-out. We started having our groceries delivered. We even had plenty of toilet paper stocked up and stowed away under the sinks. I had always dyed my own gray hair and had a couple of boxes in the cabinet.
Of course, my hair grew into a shag. Not like the old Farrah Fawcett do, more like Phyllis Diller. That was one downside, but really, a rubber band fixed that pretty easily. I'd never been that worried about hair, anyway.
Maybe our story has been replicated all over the world. Many people are not willing to share such family horror. Me? It's how I stay sane.
It started during the second month of quarantine. My husband began acting strange. Well, stranger than his normal weirdness. The beard and shaggy hair didn't help. But the crazy eyes is what got my attention. He'd spend countless hours in his comfy recliner staring at the television. Bad news. Click. Scary news. Click. Horrifying pictures. Click. Officials telling us to stay home. Click. Doctors telling us it was getting worse. Click.
I pulled the remote out of his icy hands. He resisted. I tugged. He growled. I looked into his eyes. Where was my husband? I'd never seen this particular glare.
"You're obsessing, hon," I said as I continued...