Covid toddler?

Writing with an important Day 31 discovery: I don’t like to do anything anymore.

Sorry. That’s kind of vague. I’ll explain. I like having done things or for things to be done but I no longer experience joy when engaging in an activity that lasts longer than five minutes.

Got it? No problem, I’ve got 900 more words ready to go.

Many (many, sigh) years ago I lived in Florence, Italy. I generally say that instead of the truer version - many years ago I studied abroad in Florence, Italy - because it sounds cooler.

My time in Italy had this sort of all-around awakening effect on my life. Within just thirty days on that beautiful, foreign soil with its rich history of culture I discovered a love of cooking, a passion for vintage shopping, a joy in viewing/learning about/making art. I actually started writing in the way that lead me to know I wanted to be a writer while I was in Florence. Truly life-changing.

It’s like Florence was la mia musa - my muse (fully looked that up. Can only speak Italian now when I’m drunk in a dream)

In a way, I’m back in that study abroad world now. I feel like a foreign person in a foreign place - culture shock. I have to learn a new set of ways of life - cultural acclamation. I’m drunk all the time. And money’s on the fact that I’m “here” for about the length of a semester.

And - once again - I’m making fascinating new discoveries about myself every single day. Except they suck. All of them. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if home in my Quarantine is the literal upside-down of Florence in my 20s.

My Quarantine is la mia complete fucking opposite of a musa.

What is the antonym for muse? There isn’t one. At least not on the Internet. It’s apparently too depressing a thought to assign a word. Phrase options include soul-crusher, spirit-eraser and witch. I’m looking for something a little more science fiction-feeling to explain the sense of slowly losing any interest in doing any of the things that interested me. Or, maybe - I just realized as I typed that - a developmental description would work best.

I think I’m toddlering. I think this Quarantine has turned me into a toddler.

Yesterday I sat down to play the piano. I played the piano as a child and recently started taking lessons again. To play is one of the great joys of my life. Well, was.

The first thing I did was take every single piano book out of all the places I keep my piano books, open them up, decide I hate them all and throw them on the floor while saying “yuck, yuck, yuck.” I didn’t eat any of the pages, but I came close. Next I thought I would just play whatever I want to play for fun. I banged on the keyboard in brief fits of musical excitement. I was doing something! It was joyful-ish! My life had a burst of direction/purpose/meaning! Then my eyes drifted to a corner of the living room floor where I saw a clump of dust and I literally crawled over, picked it up with my hands and started to mold it into a little cloud. I didn’t eat it, or cry (at least not within the immediate six minutes), but upon reflection it all still feels dangerously toddler-adjacent. I am - what do the funny mom bloggers call it? - a threenager?

The same pattern applies to almost everything else in my day. I watch my favorite TV show for five minutes, then reach for my phone. I get thrilled to cook a new dish; five minutes in I want to throw it across the kitchen (it being myself). I started taking those Masterclass classes online. Two days ago I watched designer Kelly Wearstler give an inspiring lesson on color, until minute 5:01 at which point I said, “who is this bitch and what does she know about white?” then promptly closed my laptop. Yesterday I got one smokey eye done, then just walked out of the bathroom. It’s like I told you 720 words ago: I don’t like to do anything for more than five minutes. But here’s the real bitch of that.

I’ve developed an irrational need for things to be done.

I love the fresh focaccia coming out of the oven. I love the pile of laundry folded on the bed. My favorite part of the episode is the credits. I’m super into both eyes looking the same. I crave completion but I loathe completing. I am the toddler that wants you to build the tower of blocks so I can see it built then knock it down. Again! I scream after I eat the entire loaf of focaccia in two days (I froze half - fine - 1/4).

So, what’s a toddler battling a witch in Corona, Florence to do? (good writing is about all the metaphors coming together).

I don’t know. I don’t have a child and I haven’t been one in a very long time. But - and this is also coming to me right now as I type - I feel like the common answer is more naps.

Fuck. And less sugar.

Ugh. Okay. Off to my first five-minute nap… Right after I pour back this Chardonnay (Un-oaked. I’m turning into a toddler, not a retired interior designer in Santa Barbara)

And in the meantime: il mio amore per tutti nella mia amata Firenze (look it up, you know I did)