On Saturday night we met on the patio of our friends, just four of us, perched hesitantly on outdoor furniture at an estimated distance of six feet. We brought masks but didn't wear them, mine dangled from my arm like a newfangled bracelet as I wondered if I shouldn't have brought a tape measure instead. Our enjoyment of good conversation, face-to-face, was marred by concerns, especially when I noticed one of my speech "droplets" flying forward from my mouth towards one of my hosts. Time stopped, a voice in my head shrieked "Noooooo!" and my instinct to reach out and grab it was narrowly squashed. Though my visible droplet fell short of my host's chair, the paranoia was real.
Our family's experiment in physically distanced socializing continued at our house on Sunday when our son celebrated his 17th birthday by having a small number of friends over to the back porch. I bleach-washed the table and chairs, carefully spacing them out and re-measuring the distance between. We placed snacks on individual plates without touching any food and asked all the boys to wear masks, which they did, except for the moments they were eating. Though we had no entertainment other than conversation, no refreshments other than the small first plate they received when they entered, the teenagers stayed for six hours. For teens who normally only converse while in the middle of doing something else (video games, workouts, driving) this was frankly remarkable.
Though my husband, son and I are profound introverts, we have dug deep in the past eight weeks and found the need for people. I have two more small-group gatherings this week, both outside, both carefully planned by conscientious people. Connection and conversations re both real human needs, and yet the ever-changing recommendations of our public health officials and politicians freight our gatherings with overtones of peril. It's like a long-running game of Twister, trying to figure out which configuration will bring us closest - but safest - to our previous life of connections.
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