Going Out

Some gratuitous Jacaranda porn - I'm really trying hard to get out and about -
My neighbourhood is worth it.

I’ve been busy—busy with things—busy with life. Now that’s got to be a good thing. Life doesn’t happen to me every day.

I recently had a visitor here, from Ireland. Not staying in the house, but I kept some time free from work to meet up with him, to go for meals, and try out new restaurants. I hardly know my city at all, so it was nice to get out and about a bit, though in the course of things, I realised that I suffer from real anxiety at the thought of going out.

Not so much going to the shops—although I often put that off until I run out of food—but dressing-up going-out—not OTT you understand—just a shower and taking time to match my top to my bottom and find a cardigan or scarf that goes with the ensemble. Perhaps even a matching necklace or bracelet.

The first evening I was meeting my friend in town at 8pm, I procrastinated and procrastinated and finally went upstairs to have a shower. I then decided that all the surfaces upstairs needed dusting. So, I dusted everything and folded some washed items, and put them away. I made the bed, which never gets made until I get back into it at night. Eventually, after all the other little jobs had been laid to rest, I got round to taking a shower, 

Then I had to get dressed.

This was a bit of an issue as I am so unhappy with my body at the moment. I had to go through half of my wardrobe and try things on and then take them off again because they didn’t fit. I began making a pile of clothes for the charity shop in town. I returned to the bathroom to brush my teeth. By this time, it was about five to eight, and I realised that the sink needed cleaning. It had to be cleaned right there and then, of course. That couldn’t wait, but my friend could.

I messaged. “I’m running late.”

Eventually, I took a deep breath, kissed the girls goodbye, and left the house. I wove through people and dodged the unmasked. More and more are now unmasked and happy to breathe all over everybody else. It’s part of the problem, but not all of it. I don’t fully trust that we have to get used to the virus or learn to live with the virus. Yet, of course, I know that is what we have to do.

The town was thronged—like there never was a pandemic. I’m happy for the bars and shops, of course, I truly am, but is it too soon?

I danced over kerbs, around trees and broken street tiles, I skirted around people—so many people—until I was charging down an alleyway looking upwards, as I usually do—buildings can be quite impressive at the top and I like to glimpse the sky, and then I almost bumped into my friend standing, waiting for me. He wasn’t quite tapping his watch.

My cheery greeting. “Better late than never.”

I apologised profusely, but in reality, I was only about half an hour late—absolutely nothing by Spanish or even Irish standards. Oddly though, my gut still runs on German timekeeping and with it, my guilt.

And in my head rang the words: “Better never late.”

I went out again just a couple of nights ago. It was unplanned and impromptu.

I was eating lunch from my slightly broken Läckö table, just inside the front door, as the girls lay on the pavement opposite sunning themselves after their lunch. They like to lie in the sun for half an hour or so until they get too hot and then they wander back home. Although they are now too old to run after other dogs that pass at the head of the road, Candy does occasionally take it into her head to wander off to the park by herself, so I have to keep an eye on them.

There I was, sitting, minding my own business, and I heard voices coming from the right, they were talking to my girls—everyone talks to my girls—and then the people came into view. It was Toncha and Carmen with their dog, Mambo.

Mambo was the link. He looks to be part Westie, a funny, furry dog with blue/grey splotches on his shaggy white coat. Every day I pass by the bars on our street; Giuseppe’s the Italian and Mario’s the Cuban/Canarian—dragging my girls back after their walk. Toncha and Carmen are often there at one place or the other, with Mambo. We have become friends.

I can say that now.

I stopped for a glass of wine a couple of weeks back and last Saturday, when they passed my front door, they invited me to come along to an exhibition opening at “La Casa Invisible”. The art was by various artists, including Carmen, who is a sculptor, like myself. So that is that—we are now friends. That is how friends happen.

But…

Of course…

Actually getting to the venue there was the inevitable procrastination; downstairs first—washing dishes, sweeping the carpet, faffing with…things, and then I went upstairs to take a shower and get dressed…

The upstairs windows needed to be cleaned first, of course. Then I had to clean the bath and the sink, again, and finally, I showered and went into my bedroom to try to find something to wear—that fit.

Once dressed, I descended the stairs and kissed the girls goodbye. “Don’t hate me," I whispered into their furry coats. "I’ll be back. I don’t really want to go.”

That was true; I really didn’t want to go, and yet, I had to go. I have to meet people. I would have had more friends in my life here if silly old Covid had not struck when it did, and maybe I would not be so afraid now.

I think I need to fight it as I am turning more and more into a recluse and am getting more and more anxious when I go out of the house. I know it’s not healthy, but it is how it is.