Time is an unreliable witness these days. It’s March again (in case anyone is keeping track) which means we’ve been going through these post-apocalyptic end credits of Life for a year now. Maybe that’s why it wasn’t until I checked my email last week on a whim that I realized my flight out of Lahore was the next night and not, as my inner voices had assured me, “sometime soon-ish.”
“Panicked” doesn’t nearly do justice to how hard I was clenched. A few pills calmed me down and within minutes I stormed the nearest clinic to get my Covid PCR test for travel. I’d heard horror stories about falsified reports and contaminated samples, but my experience was disturbingly efficient. The lab even asked for my flight information so they could send the results to them directly, though, on reflection, this is probably because the airlines had heard the same horror stories. Packing didn’t leave much time for lengthy goodbyes, which was a relief because the older I get the worse a toll they take on me. I don’t think I’ve checked into a flight for the last five years without tears streaming down my face and most of the time it’s not even because I’ve been seated next to a toe-picker.
The journey itself was less tense than before, probably because we have all gotten used to the pervasive fear and just can’t be bothered anymore. I transferred from my slightly empty plane to an empty plane in the Middle East, where the airports were sparkling and empty. Stores were shuttered, restaurants closed, lounges barred. There was probably only one other flight leaving for my terminal and there wasn’t so much as a five-minute wait through security. I was just getting into a good mood until when I arrived at the plane and an air hostess scanned my ticket, frowned and pulled me aside.
This is it, I thought. The PCR test in Lahore was fake, they’re about to tell me I have Covid and Ebola and am going to be sent to pandemic prison with nothing but a sleep mask and hand sanitizer.
“Here you go,” she said brightly, handing me a new card. “We’ve upgraded you to first class.”
“Sir,” she repeated when I hadn’t spoken in two minutes. “Sire are you alright? Oh…(awkward pause) oh there’s no reason to…please don’t cry.”
“I just…” I heaved, tears streaking my mask. “its just been such a tough week, you know? And now you’re here, and you’re so nice and you’re telling me that-”
“Enjoy your flight!” she said before sprinting away from me so fast there were marks on the carpet.
Girls, I don’t know if you know this, but they have beds in First Class. Not seats that recline down, not even cushions that disassemble into an approximation of comfort. Full. Beds.
I was greeted by a lovely stewardess who told me apologetically about all the services I couldn’t have because of Covid protocols (they have showers!), which didn’t make the slightest dent in my now morbid elation. For the first three hours I kept waiting for some to arrest me and send me back to cargo, but when they didn’t, I slept the whole way back to New York, which was an unfortunate waste of all the food they promised I could have on the flight.
I returned to find the city essentially unchanged, except that the glazed look in people’s eyes now has a maniacal, frenzied tint to it. Cinemas, restaurants, stores are all closed. Most of the places that qualify to stay open like gyms have shut down because of financial problems, and the streets are still devoid of traffic. What has changed is my waistline. Like, for real.
The first morning I woke up, I decided that a year was long enough to have simmered in the sympathetic stew that let me eat what I wanted with abandon. For a year I had avoided mirrors, belts, jeans, weighing scales and gyms – but now even my sweat pants were getting tight and I was worried. Turns out I’ve put on 35 lbs during Covid, 34 of which are on my stomach.
Ordinarly I would have fainted on the floor in the hopes that being unconscious for three days would burn calories, but frankly I chose to put this on. I can remember every take-out meal, every pizza, every cake, every mouthful of rice and morsel of paratha, and I do not regret a single one. They got me through a tumultuous, crazy, terrible year, and for that I’m grateful.
I am also grateful that because of Covid I don’t actually have to see anyone in person for a while and, like a floating iceberg, can hide the majority of my mass below camera level if ever on a Zoom.
So, as we begin Pandemic: Year Two, I wish you health and happiness. See you in 35 lbs.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
“Panicked” doesn’t nearly do justice to how hard I was clenched. A few pills calmed me down and within minutes I stormed the nearest clinic to get my Covid PCR test for travel. I’d heard horror stories about falsified reports and contaminated samples, but my experience was disturbingly efficient. The lab even asked for my flight information so they could send the results to them directly, though, on reflection, this is probably because the airlines had heard the same horror stories. Packing didn’t leave much time for lengthy goodbyes, which was a relief because the older I get the worse a toll they take on me. I don’t think I’ve checked into a flight for the last five years without tears streaming down my face and most of the time it’s not even because I’ve been seated next to a toe-picker.
The journey itself was less tense than before, probably because we have all gotten used to the pervasive fear and just can’t be bothered anymore. I transferred from my slightly empty plane to an empty plane in the Middle East, where the airports were sparkling and empty. Stores were shuttered, restaurants closed, lounges barred. There was probably only one other flight leaving for my terminal and there wasn’t so much as a five-minute wait through security. I was just getting into a good mood until when I arrived at the plane and an air hostess scanned my ticket, frowned and pulled me aside.
This is it, I thought. The PCR test in Lahore was fake, they’re about to tell me I have Covid and Ebola and am going to be sent to pandemic prison with nothing but a sleep mask and hand sanitizer.
“Here you go,” she said brightly, handing me a new card. “We’ve upgraded you to first class.”
“Sir,” she repeated when I hadn’t spoken in two minutes. “Sire are you alright? Oh…(awkward pause) oh there’s no reason to…please don’t cry.”
“I just…” I heaved, tears streaking my mask. “its just been such a tough week, you know? And now you’re here, and you’re so nice and you’re telling me that-”
“Enjoy your flight!” she said before sprinting away from me so fast there were marks on the carpet.
Girls, I don’t know if you know this, but they have beds in First Class. Not seats that recline down, not even cushions that disassemble into an approximation of comfort. Full. Beds.
I returned to find the city essentially unchanged, except that the glazed look in people’s eyes now has a maniacal, frenzied tint to it. Cinemas, restaurants, stores are all closed
I was greeted by a lovely stewardess who told me apologetically about all the services I couldn’t have because of Covid protocols (they have showers!), which didn’t make the slightest dent in my now morbid elation. For the first three hours I kept waiting for some to arrest me and send me back to cargo, but when they didn’t, I slept the whole way back to New York, which was an unfortunate waste of all the food they promised I could have on the flight.
I returned to find the city essentially unchanged, except that the glazed look in people’s eyes now has a maniacal, frenzied tint to it. Cinemas, restaurants, stores are all closed. Most of the places that qualify to stay open like gyms have shut down because of financial problems, and the streets are still devoid of traffic. What has changed is my waistline. Like, for real.
The first morning I woke up, I decided that a year was long enough to have simmered in the sympathetic stew that let me eat what I wanted with abandon. For a year I had avoided mirrors, belts, jeans, weighing scales and gyms – but now even my sweat pants were getting tight and I was worried. Turns out I’ve put on 35 lbs during Covid, 34 of which are on my stomach.
I can remember every take-out meal, every pizza, every cake, every mouthful of rice and morsel of paratha, and I do not regret a single one. They got me through a tumultuous, crazy, terrible year, and for that I’m grateful
Ordinarly I would have fainted on the floor in the hopes that being unconscious for three days would burn calories, but frankly I chose to put this on. I can remember every take-out meal, every pizza, every cake, every mouthful of rice and morsel of paratha, and I do not regret a single one. They got me through a tumultuous, crazy, terrible year, and for that I’m grateful.
I am also grateful that because of Covid I don’t actually have to see anyone in person for a while and, like a floating iceberg, can hide the majority of my mass below camera level if ever on a Zoom.
So, as we begin Pandemic: Year Two, I wish you health and happiness. See you in 35 lbs.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com