July has caught me by surprise, as if slapping the back of my head with a rolled-up brochure advertising all-inclusive summer vacations in faraway, virus-free, coastal resorts.
'Shouldn't you be somewhere fun by now?' July says, getting up close and personal, its hot breath searing my face. 'Why are you still working from home when you could be working from the beach, laptop balanced on a beer crammed cooler, answering emails while sitting in the shade with autofill spreadsheets and all conference calls on mute.'
It's a good question. But, alas, all travel options are impractical this year. After all, who really wants to wander through a tropical paradise wearing a plague mask and flip-flops, or annex a six-foot circle of socially distanced personal space on the lanai, afraid of boisterous bacteria partying in the hot tub?
At times like these, I stare out of the window thinking an Olympic size swimming pool would easily fit in my driveway. Some deckchairs, a few potted palms, a makeshift cabana, and I can pretend I'm holidaying on the French Riviera. I'd be forced to risk parking on the street, but that's an inconsequential inconvenience compared to enjoying my fantasy version of Saint-Tropez each day.
'You should have thought of that before,' July tells me, exhaling yet another blast of super-humid breath. 'It's too late now. If you started building a pool today it wouldn't be finished until the Fall. I bet the planning permission alone wouldn't be granted before October.'
Ah yes, the Fall. I wonder what words of wisdom November will have for me. 'Stay inside. The second wave of Coronavirus has arrived. It's not safe out there anymore.' Summer's chiding and cajoling to leave my house rapidly turning into Winter's full-blown paranoia for hibernation.
Frankly, I'm already nostalgic for this past Spring and the early days of lockdown, when a break from routine seemed like an adventure and an interesting challenge to the daily grind, those April and May mornings that truly made a novelty of the Novel Coronavirus.
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