Last week my apartmentmates and I thought our refrigerator was broken. We opened the squeaky white door during the first hot spell in Boston, and felt no rush of cold air from the belly of the fridge.
In the next several days, food spoiled: hummus became fuzzy, oat milk got chunky, black beans: funky. Still mourning a moldy container of yogurt, we wearily composted a once-delicious tupperware of caramelized red onions. The wilted mint was past resurrection.
Many of our appliances (washing machine, disposal, dishwasher, oven, microwave) have failed in the last two years, so this was yet another unwelcome discovery. We pestered our landlord (a favorite Monday activity) until a handyman showed up. Once he arrived, all the food had to be pulled out of the too-full freezer (more bags of corn than people on our lease, and an even greater number of frozen bread butts). I was at work when this occurred and received a group text from my roommate summing up the situation after the handyman left:
I laughed hysterically upon receiving that text and felt immense gratitude for the ease of the solution. The cheese bags were removed and the chill of the fridge restored. Our ice and popsicles re-froze. When we opened the door, we heard that delightful *kshhh* suctioning sound and felt a rush of cold air spill onto the kitchen floor.
It sounds silly when I type it out, but the way the world is opening up reminds me of our fridge. For more than a year, we’ve been cooped up inside in our little tupperware homes. I felt myself spoiling, curdling, growing mold. And then—it happened so fast—the mysterious bags of cheese were removed from the vent, and all of a sudden, our fridge—our world—was restored to normal.
But of course it isn’t.
The environment around us has begun to equilibrate, but we haven’t. Left with our curdled, moldy bits, we’re expected to function as if nothing happened.
So much has happened.
I’ve found it particularly hard to reintegrate myself into social settings. A single social interaction takes so much out of me. I’m performing a version of myself that existed before the pandemic, and I’m not quite sure how to introduce the world to the version of me that exists now. And as we get closer and closer to this introduction, I feel a nauseating wave of social anxiety.
When my sister and I were kids, my dad frequently read us Dr. Seuss’s I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew. The protagonist of the story (pictured below, jumping into Vent No. 5 to escape a swarm of poozers), seeks the trouble-free city of Solla Sollew—paradise. But he encounters seemingly endless trials on his journey there.
One can relate.
I’m having terrible trouble in getting to Solla Sollew, which I’m sure is beautiful and easy. People mingle outside and it’s a perfectly sunny 70 degree day and some folks are sipping cold IPAs but no one will have a hangover tomorrow. We all only have interesting things to say and there is no awkwardness or Covid-19. We are comfortable.
But that’s not where I live right now. I am deeply uncomfortable all the time. I still feel surrounded by poozers, and I’ll happily jump into Vent No. 5, without knowing where it goes, if only to rid myself of a feeling or situation that feels unbearable. (Perhaps that’s what a maladaptive coping mechanism really is—jumping into the most accessible vent that offers immediate relief, but may have a host of unknown consequences.)
But of course, even Solla Sollew isn’t perfect. When our narrator finally arrives in the magical city (spoiler alert!), he cannot enter Solla Sollew because a Key-Slapping Slippard has made its home in the keyhole of the only entrance. Our protagonist then decides that rather than set out in search of another problem-free city, he will arm himself with a bat and tackle his troubles on his own.
It’s a nice idea.
I like to think I’ve armed myself with the tools to be able to tackle my troubles on my own. And maybe I have. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. All the time I’m still searching for Vent No. 5 no matter the troubles that await me inside. I’m still secretly hoping some more nearly empty cheese bags will block the fridge vent of my life and I’ll get to retreat back inside, if only to continue rotting. Although momentarily attractive, these vents are not my solution.
And yet, ventilation is part of the solution: a passing breeze, a fresh perspective, an airing of ourselves. I believe, or, at least, hope, that these are the antidotes to staleness.
I described my sunny, IPA-filled, sanitized-of-awkwardness ideal of post-pandemic life to my younger sister and, as often happens, she humbled me in her response:
I’m sort of enjoying this weird awkwardness where I haven’t seen people in a year and yet I still have nothing to say, but we’re all in this same boat and we’re kind of navigating this reintroduction to life together.
My version of Solla Sollew doesn’t exist, and it’s futile to expend energy seeking it. If what I’m really looking for is comfort, I might find that in my sister’s more realistic vision: muddling through the awkwardness together.
No one is actually asking me to be shiny and whole. None of us came out of this year unscathed, and we don’t have to pretend otherwise. It’s okay that I feel self-conscious when people see me in a bigger body than I’ve ever existed in. It’s okay that I still feel depressed when the weather is gorgeous. It’s okay to think I have nothing interesting to say, and then to remember that I am actually filled with interesting things to say—just this week, I spoke to a Canadian economist about strategies for pricing legal cannabis when an illicit market exist. And the week before, I learned about the colorful, capitalist history of watermelon. And two days ago I got two cortisone shots in my heels, and the way steroids break the bonds between collagen fibers to reduce scar tissue is, in my opinion, fascinating.
Last night, I biked home with my roommates after leaving an outdoor picnic with friends. The evening was dark and humid, the air electric with an impending storm and the staticky energy of summer. We bombed down a hill on Harvard Street and took big gulps of air.
When we coasted to a slower pace, I said, “It’s hard to motivate to do social things, but when I actually go, it’s usually fun.”
To which my roommate responded, thoughtfully, “And even if it’s not always fun, it can still be good for you.”
In my revised ideal social setting, I imagine taking my mask off and hanging it on a clothesline to freshen up. I imagine letting my guard down and being awkward and saying something stupid, and then forgiving myself before heading back home, sweaty and joyfully exhausted, to stand in front of our Very Cold Fridge to cool down.