A real-life metaphor. Or possibly a parable.
I felt pretty loose this morning, and convinced myself, perhaps unwisely… “Perhaps”? Screw that. I deluded myself into thinking that I could get by with only my late-night skulk, skipping over any thought of daylight perambulations. Wrong. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I was finally forced to admit my gross error of judgement.
This morning I ran across a bit of pertinent info (I don’t recall where) regards what is legally allowed before a walker has to resort to showing a note from his or her doctor. We are permitted to walk for exercise (ours or our dog’s) for up to two hundred meters from home. Nothing was said about walking in circles, zigzags, t-shapes, or figure eights, so I blithely assume all such figurations are okay. The news ought to have been encouragement enough for me to leap up, lace the sneakers, and bound onto the street, parameters now having been securely established. But it was cold outside. And windy. And a friend across town reported snow – which took an hour to arrive in Via delle Pertiche – and even though the attempt at snow (once it got here) appeared lame and insufficient to a former resident of Scranton and New York, I seized upon the excuse with the fervor of the desperate.
After an hour or two of masterful procrastination, I grabbed my peacoat (now permanently filled with tissue, wallet, keys, and doctor’s note) zipped it up to my chin, and twisted the grey scarf around my neck. As a second thought, I grabbed my shopping bag. I had determined I could wait until tomorrow to shop if I were strict with myself about consumption of acqua frizzante (bubbly water), but since I’d be out during the slow time at the supermarket…
Eager to know exactly at what point I would be breaking the law, I counted steps for the route that would take me furthest from my front gate. Figuring a stride is less than a meter, I estimated 260 steps to equal two hundred meters. I set out with great resolve. The wind gusted, and blew my scarf into my open mouth. It all felt rather heroic.
Arriving at the intersection of Via delle Donne and Via Felice Cavolotti, I counted 280 steps. Close enough. I could argue the additional twenty. I swiveled and strode on towards Via Montemarte, from which on my return home counted as a mere 220 steps. I was clearly within bounds.
Emboldened by my new legality, I decided that yes, I would shop today, why deprive myself of frizzante when others were having it delivered by the case? Next swing by home, I’d go in, load up with change, and at the end of my reps would head straight for Metà. Oh! I’d better check my wallet, change might not be enough.
I reached for the zipper cursor. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder. It resisted harder. I yanked and practically choked myself. I removed my scarf so I could get a better grip. No dice. The wind came up, the snow returned, the scarf blew into my gaping mouth – none of which added up to my feeling heroic.
I kept walking. The problem unfolded before me. The zipper will need someone else’s pulling at it, I could not achieve the correct angle. I can’t ask one of the guys at the market because, unless one of them has exceptionally long arms, it would violate social distancing. I live alone. There is no one else.
For one circuit of my route, I imagined 1) pulling the coat off like a sweater, risking suffocation and/or a broken nose from the zipped collar in my attempt, 2) being stuck in the jacket for however long the lockdown lasts, all the while praying that the weather does not turn warm, 3) cutting myself out with scissors, which, given my random sheering techniques, constituted the most perilous proposition.
I turned towards home. The snow thickened. A letter awaited me in the mailbox, I retrieved it. I wanted to open it, but felt I should deal with the zipper first.
Of course, as is my body’s wont, within a minute of arriving home I was overtaken by a irrepressible urge to pee, which, given that I was imprisoned in a mid-thigh length coat, made for a very amusing vaudeville.
A ridiculous story made good, I sat, I studied the cursor with my fingers, I pulled at a certain angle, and the zipper gave way a few inches. I stood, gave the cursor another yank, it gave a few more inches. A third tug and it was free. And so was I.
What I just skipped over is that the first thing I tried was to remove the coat like a sweater. I did not persist, which was wise – or at least not too stupid – because as I surmised earlier, the consequences would have been dire.
The moral? A coat is not a sweater. It is vitally important that we see things for what they are.
The photo is courtesy of Ida and Hans. It’s darkly funny, but it is even more terrifying. The good news is that new cases of the virus in Italy have been down for three days in a row. Things are still grim, but our efforts seem to be making a difference. Persist.