NYC, April something, 2020. I’ve been self-isolating and working from home for almost 3 weeks. COVID-19 is real as can be, and I am really isolating because my roommate has left me for dead and gone to a friend’s vacation home in Cape Cod. I know.
At first it wasn’t too bad. Working from home was a breeze. I wore pajamas all day every day, Netflixing, snacking and drinking with abandon. I walked around naked, and never had to close the bathroom door. Glorious. But as the weeks passed I realized I would have to start combating this bleak existence or find my own demise.
I established a healthy daily schedule; reading, writing, meditating, exercise, healthy eating, limiting my news and screen time, and only drinking two days a week. I also made a point to connect with friends and family often. Great job, Venessa. However...
Let’s go back to the drinking thing. I was limiting the number of days I drank every week- but that didn’t really limit the amount I was drinking. Let’s just say I was treating a boozy seltzer 12-pack like a 6-pack. And even with a 6-pack I don’t think you’re supposed to drink all of them.
Cut to: your girl is hammered on a Fri. night when I get a text from a previous suitor. We’ll call him Mr. Pancakes. The text chiming in with the ever-so-charming “Hey”.
In my defense, I’d been repeatedly turning down Mr. Pancakes in previous weeks, “What about global health crisis don’t you understand?”. But, this Friday was different. I was titty-deep in a box of wine, and drunk on a newly arrived bra and scented oils from the internet. As Lizzo would say, “Blame it on the Juice.”
The rest of that evening is clearly implicated, and mediocre. However the even more humiliating part of this story is yet to come!
Fast forward a week or so later. Yours truly is having a difficult time peeing. The burning, irritation, and constant feeling of having to pee, all too familiar by women everywhere; a UTI.
Now, I’m cut from a certain loud and resilient cloth that is not commonly embarrassed or sexually ashamed. But, when I had to show up at an emergency health clinic, in the middle of a pandemic, to get medicine for irresponsible sexing, I was both. The medical staff were clearly exhausted and spread thin. And when I meekly uttered “UTI” from behind my face mask at the reception desk, they still took care of me. So when I say I’m an asshole for breaking quarantine and I’m going to hell, you’d probably agree.