Column
The Quarantine Diaries: The Dog Is Blessedly Clueless About Coronavirus
Drew Magary reflects on Covid-19, social distancing, and life under self-quarantine. Part one of a series.
We’re almost out of eggs. There are four left in the house, and we’re gonna need more. Hole yourself up inside for days on end — with the prospect of those days stretching into a great many months — and you swiftly become cognizant of what really matters. No, that’s not a metaphor. I am talking literally about vital sundries: toilet paper, milk, butter, eggs, bread, chocolate, etc. This is all the shit people in my state always buy in a panic when an inch of snow might fall. Turns out they had the right idea, just the wrong occasion.
I lived like a normal person last week. I walked my kids to the bus stop in the morning. I worked. I went to the gym. I took my son to the doctor for a routine physical (he’s fine). I bought a shitload of groceries. I took my son to his youth basketball team’s final game of the season, and the boys screamed “Coronavirus!” instead of “Cheese!” for their group photo afterward. I even went out to a crowded bar with a friend, the way every stubborn idiot in Nashville is still doing as we speak. I got in every last taste of my normal routine before the news made…
