The Fourth Day

Day Four: the door remains closed.

Three days. That is how many consecutive days I can get myself up and out of the house in the morning before I spin a cocoon. I awaken early, sip coffee, play a few games, finish the chapter or video cut short by slumber the previous evening. Then I dress and head out to the gym for exercise or yoga if my Beauties promise to join me for coffee afterwards. If not, I can easily talk myself out of going anywhere. But the fourth day is almost impossible. Social anxiety? Introversion? Sloth?

My getting-out-the-door pills idle in my medicine cabinet. One tablet of propranolol, often used by public speakers, eases my reluctance. I just have to remember to take it. At times the effort to talk myself into the bathroom is enough to hold me back.

I remind myself that I am an adult and don’t need an excuse to do what I do. Surely my immobility cannot be attributed to sloth, that greatest of Midwestern sins, having grown up under the banner of ‘should’. I adhere to the social anxiety theory, introversion not necessarily locking me in my room.

Perhaps we are gifted a get-out-of-the-house quota, and I have depleted mine. I have many friends and family who rarely stay home. Are we granted different levels at birth?

Traffic would stagnate if everyone were on the street at the same time. And the COVID-19 pandemic demonstrated that entire societies remaining at home was unhealthy.

So I swallow my guilt, assure myself that I am doing my part to balance the community density, and after three days out the door, I stay home.