The Magic Word is Go

Between my lover and my mother (neither of whom will stay inside), I might as well just hang out in a hospital waiting room, with no mask.

Monday morning, after our daily Zoom dance class (taught by my friend Jess, so I refer to it as Jess-ercise), Mom texts me:

It’s a losing battle. So, I give up. Later that afternoon she calls me.

Mom: I’m home safe! You would be very proud of me. I went to the gas station (I almost cough up a hairball at this), and the church (just kill me quickly), and I used my little Clorox wipe on everything. I didn’t touch anything.

Me: And then when you got home you washed your hands with hot water and lots of soap while singing “Happy Birthday” twice?

Mom: Well, no… Because I’m calling you to tell you. I just got home.

Me: AH! Mom, wash your hands! And clean your phone with a Clorox wipe!

Mom: Ok, ok. But I didn’t touch anything! (Defiantly) I’m fine. I’m home.

I can hear she is wounded that I am not suddenly happy she “survived” her outing, and it occurs to me that I may have referred to this as the zombie apocalypse too many times, because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand how this coronavirus thing works. Still, I try and give her a little praise.

Me: Ok good. Stay there!

Mom: I am. I’m in.

… But not for long I expect, as my mother always said “The magic word is ‘GO!’”