Since we entered the Covid-verse, when I do the weekly grocery shopping I pick up some frozen breakfast entrée.
Before the time of masks and distancing, we went out to breakfast Sunday mornings; but of course that is but a fond memory now.
So every week for the last seven months, I have been picking up something for our Sunday breakfast while grocery shopping.
So, why, oh why, oh why-oh, this past week I failed to pick up something for Sunday breakfast? It was ON MY LIST! I’ve been doing this every week for SEVEN months. And still, I failed to get anything.
Total fat old lady brain fart.
So it’s Sunday and I am going to have to go pick something up for breakfast.
We decide I should go to City Diner – which is where we used to go every Sunday for breakfast before we got Corona-fied.
So I call in our order, and go pick it up.
And it’s open for business.
I mean, really, open for business.
They have outside seating and they are doing inside seating (at 25% capacity for distancing purposes).
I get to say hello to the folks who work there, who used to be part of our weekly routine.
The TVs have sports on them. (We are not sports folks but we enjoy watching whatever sport is on the TV – with the sound off or turned down – while we eat our Sunday breakfast – just to watch these young, fit people do amazing (albeit pretty much pointless – at least to us) feats of athletic prowess.)
I see the ghost of Sunday Mornings Past.
And I want it. I want the normalcy of sitting down to breakfast at City Diner on a Sunday morning so much. Soooooooooooooooooooo much.
I pick up our food order and go home.
Do we do an extra dance with death just to pretend things are, at least a smidge more, normal and go eat at City Diner? Or do we do the sensible thing and keep on keeping on?
We’ve made it seven fucking months! Why risk it?
We’ve been so good for seven fucking months! Don’t we deserve to treat ourselves?
We are still two high risk individuals. The virus is still around. It could kill us.
But, ooooooooooooh, the temptation.