We all learned to count, and usually it began with our fingers and toes. As we progressed nursery rhymes, such as one, two, buckle my shoe, reinforced our learning. Eventually, the alphabet got involved in math, and that’s when I checked out. It didn’t matter to me if A + B= C. Just how much do I owe for groceries?
Now, there were times when I counted down, particularly the days before Christmas. I made paper chains and never missed a day removing a link in enthusiastic anticipation of Santa’s arrival. I also counted down the days until summer vacation, my birthday, and my graduation. However, and this is the truth, I have never balanced my check book. As long as I have checks, I figure I must have money. Nor have I ever counted calories. Why bother? If I get hungry, I eat. (However, I’ve been somewhat blessed with the metabolism that seems to manage my food intake.)
Several months ago, however, I had an epiphany! Counting consumed my life, when I was exposed to COVID! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, what now? I scoured the internet–14 day-quarantine. Damn, I’ve spent the last six months living a cloistered life, where my only joy was a fifteen-minute shopping spree at the grocery. Now, even my one venture out in the world was squelched. Yet, somehow, I endured my 14-day lockdown with potato chips, Hallmark movies, and four novels.
Then came promise of the vaccine, but how long would it be before my age-group could schedule an injection? Weeks. I counted. Finally, I scored appointment #1. I was elated; I thought I won the lottery or the Willy Wonka gold bar. I counted the weeks, then the days, and finally the hours until the syringe hit my arm. Twenty-one days until #2. My countdown continues. Yet, another countdown looms–fourteen days after #2.
And yesterday I learned the results of my recent blood test: “Sue, you have COVID antibodies, and no, it has nothing to do with dose #1. You have had COVID.” Hmm. I’ve wasted a lot of days worrying and counting.