Shhhhhh. I’m Quietly Quitting. Are You?

Walking 10,000 steps a day.

Dining out.

Shopping in stores.

Drinking alcohol.

Volunteering.

Going to see plays and movies.

Attending meetings.

Visiting my aunt in her care facility.

These are just some of the things that I’ve quietly quit since the start of COVID. Some because I worried about succumbing to the virus. Others for a variety of reasons. For instance, I stopped walking because of hip pain and stopped drinking alcohol because I was overindulging in my quest to find the perfect tequila.

Surprisingly, at least to me, I even came close to quitting phone calls, in part because so many people suggested turning those calls into video calls, which was inconvenient to my stay-at-home self who was taking fewer showers and not worrying about styling my overgrown hair. Heck, somedays I wasn’t even getting out of my PJs.

Many of my friends and colleagues have been quietly quitting as well. Some because of their health or the health of a loved one. Some because driving has become more challenging due to failing eyesight. Others because they’ve retired and now spend more time traveling or with their grandkids.

However, I didn’t realize we were “quietly quitting” until just a few weeks ago when I came across several articles about China’s young workers, many of whom are making it clear that they—unlike previous generations, including mine and that of my fellow Word Sisters—are not willing to work themselves to the bone.

Instead, many are “lying flat” by doing the bare minimum to get by. For some that means refusing to work extra hours. For others it means forgoing a job altogether. For still others it means not getting married or having children.

While most of my quits have felt like a natural evolution from the years in which I often put others’ priorities ahead of my own, I recently realized my pendulum has swung too far and although I am still not venturing out much, I am once again spending time with family and friends, volunteering and even traveling. 

How about you? Have you been quietly (or even loudly) quitting? If so, what have you quit? And perhaps more importantly, have you found new ways to engage? If so, please share.

Gung Pao Chicken #2 Spicy

Gung Pao Chicken #2 Spicy is written on my desk calendar, on a piece of scrap paper in my bag, at the bottom of our grocery list. My husband’s favorite order from a small Vietnamese restaurant we like. Okay, a place where we ate so often that the servers know us. 

It is a neighborhood eatery where we could relax after a busy day or before running errands. Carry out orders flew from the kitchen. Tables were filled with college students, young families, parents with grouchy high school kids, retirees. Large fish tanks amuse young diners. Food came fast. On rainy or winter nights the crowded room felt cozy. 

When curbside carry out became available, we called our place. The first night, part of our order was missing when we got home. Two weeks later my stir fry had little flavor and the rice needed warming. We noted the slip-ups, but didn’t dream about trying another place or dropping Vietnamese from our carry out rotation. They know who we are when we walk in. I know the person who says it is good to see me. They prefer cash and I understand how credit card fees eat into small business sales. 

The food is good, but not great. It is truly all about the people and setting. And we want to keep their kitchen busy and their staff working until that atmosphere can be restored and there is time to talk about the world as water glasses are filled. We have a connection. In cities that builds neighborhood.

Storefronts and restaurants have already closed on their block because of seven months without stable sales and the whammy of riot damage. Social distancing outside the watch repair place, there are no lines next to me at the theater where a new release is showing. No patrons sit around tables at the tea shop. Inventory looks low at the corner gift store. What will the holidays look like for these small merchants? How will a tenuous consumer economy support neighborhood places? 

So much is unknown because most of us haven’t experienced circumstances so forbidding. This has been described as the worst economy since the Big Depression. Hopefully there will be enough folks in the neighborhood, with resources, ordering Gung Pao Chicken to keep owners and employees of small businesses intact. In the meantime, let’s keep safe and watch out for each other.

In Memory

Door County, WI: Sunsets are earlier. Black-eyed Susan dominates gardens as hydrangea fade. Squirrels fearlessly dart across sidewalks, decks and paths to grab early acorns. Field mice and chipmunks are in the same race for food stores.

Trees are beginning to change. Yellowing leaves increase in numbers each day. Kids still run on beaches and play wherever a swing set is not closed. Young people gather with cases of beer, many without masks. More cautious folks crowd outdoor dining places. Multi-generational families wander about as if it were August 1, not September 1. COVID has changed the normal rhythms of summer while Mother Nature delivers heat and humidity where houses didn’t need air conditioning ten years earlier. Lake Michigan pushes beyond its all-time high water mark, devouring docks and houses’ front yards.

When it already feels as if the stars are out of synch, COVID has taken the fathers of three friends or relatives. Three members of the Greatest Generation, living in three different states, in congregate facilities for three very different reasons. Friends and family called them Jim, Dom, and Marlin. They had eleven adult children among them plus almost four dozen grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Two were veterans and one farmed his entire life. Family photos show them joking with great, tall grandsons, sitting with the newest grandbaby resting on an arm, in wheelchairs by Christmas trees. These were men who loved and were loved.

Thanks to COVID, they died comforted by staff members as their families were mostly kept away. In the heat of August, sons and daughters mourned the once strong fathers who built businesses, walked fields, fixed tractors, painted houses, taught them to throw a ball, sang next to them in church, made the final journey of life without endangering family.

The Greatest Generation is disappearing as COVID ignites within our communities. They fought for our country’s freedom, raised families, built the cars and houses and machines of the 20^th century USA, fed the world. In turn COVID has left us unable to protect them, not even gather for proper farewells.

As summer sneaks away, as our elderly pass in the settings meant to keep them safe, as our days of small social gatherings and playing games outdoors with our grandchildren are numbered, COVID is like the spreading black-eyed Susan which left unchecked threatens to obliterate the beauty of other blooms.

In honor of James Armstrong, Dominic St. Peter, and Marlin Hunt. With sympathy to their families and to all who have lost loved ones to this pandemic. Friends, please help friends stay healthy and strong.

Mount Fuji and Grey Hair

“How old are you?” The bike expert was putting a new battery into my cyclecomputer. How old am I? I wasn’t sure. I have had difficulty knowing how old I am. I’m going to retire next year at 63. On my birthday in September, I’ll be 62. I must be 61. 61 I told him.

“How much do you weigh?” I didn’t know that answer either. When was the last time I was on a scale? He must have taken my pause as a reluctance to reveal my weight. Before he could finish his explanation of why he needed my weight I made a guess and gave him a number.

On my bike ride home, I wondered, “If I didn’t color my hair, would that help me remember my age?” I don’t feel 61. If my hair was in its natural state, it would be completely silver or white. Maybe I’d look more my age. That is exactly why I have been coloring my hair for years in the first place. I didn’t want my children to have an old mother. I figured I’d wait until after they graduated from high school to go natural. Then the pandemic came. Now seems like a perfectly good time to work with all those feelings that grey hair will bring.

Sitting in the salon chair, I could see a family resemblance reflected in the mirror. I never wanted my mother or Aunt Annie to slide in and out of my face. With grey hair that might be exactly what I get.

Hiking up the ski hill, I imagined that our trip to Japan and our climb up Mount Fuji this coming July was still on. That trip may or may not happen. Like the rest of the world with this pandemic, my family and I are on a wait and see. Laboring for breath walking up the steep incline felt great. My entire body was committed to reaching the top. Once there I was graced with the Minneapolis skyline. I will continue to climb and descend regardless of COVID-19. Grey hair will certainly happen.

Cocktail Hour

Before all of us dispersed at the end of the evening, the leg broke loose from the fire pit bowl, toppling hot embers into the street.  It had been repaired once before using a zip tie.

Our melting pot of a block was gathered together for no reason other than a stay-at-home order was in place for midnight.

Lawn chairs were haphazardly set in a circular pattern at the dead end of the block in front of the No Parking Fire Lane sign.

Jody and I had been encouraging these get-togethers for over twenty years. Many had been held in our back yard. Now others on the block often sounded the alarm for a get-together.

Single, married, remarried, divorced, widowed, Indonesian, Hispanic, African American, white, young, old, Republican, Democrat, gay and straight mixed around the fire that I poked with my 6-foot distancing stick.

There were those who believed in conspiracy theories, those who loved our President and blame the Chinese, and those attracted to herd immunity. There were also those who were frustrated with the President’s response and reassured by the state’s plans.

Our entire block of eight houses was represented, in its diversity and imperfection, a potpourri of all there is in the world.

Throughout the evening, I moved from lawn chair to lawn chair, appreciating all our differences.

I took pride that we could come together time after time finding commonality and enjoyment in each other.

Before he left, the oldest guy on the block would say with satisfaction, “None of us on the block have it,” meaning the COVID–19.

I was happy to be a part of his ‘us.’ He was too. Though in all respects, he and I, are polar opposites in our religious and political views. I take delight in who he is. He’s gifted me fish he’s caught and venison from deer he has killed.

I believe, that despite our differences, if my family did get COVID-19, he and all the others on our block would look after us. We are all part of the ‘us.’

His wife stayed back helping me with the now broken fire pit. We doused the embers together. Before she walked down the street, she said, “We need a get-together at our house. We’ve never had people over.”

Our imperfect block will continue to rendezvous. The broken fire pit will once again get mended. Social distance will be respected in varying degrees.