Days of the Locust

I’m sure Germans have a word for it—they have a word for everything. Witness schadenfreude, the pleasure someone derives from another person’s misfortune. (It’s a little creepy that there’s an actual word for that, with its whiff of sadism.) Or maybe there’s a Millennial acronym for it, like YOLO or FOMO. What is the term for the great long-lasting joy of a small crisis averted? The other day, Other and I took a long walk along the Riverside bikeway. It was a breezy, springlike day, and there were many of us out there. My thick homemade mask was, as usual, impinging on my pleasure. Fussing with the ear loops, I decided to remove my hearing aids to relieve some of the behind-the-ear congestion. I put them in my pocket, and we continued our walk—now silent, at least for me. When I got back home and went into my pocket to retrieve my aids, one wasn’t there. Oh shit! I’m quite hard of hearing, as Other will attest. I’m a misery without my aids, constantly asking people to repeat t

Teaching moments A while back, I was sitting in the San Jose airport in Costa Rica, waiting for the van that was supposed to take me to a yoga retreat a couple hours away. The van was very, very late, and a woman about my age introduced herself as a sister yogini (let’s call her 3G), and we started chatting. I was tempted to complain as the hours ticked by, but my companion stopped me cold by musing, “I wonder what it is that I need to learn from waiting?” So the other day when I walking in the park sweating inside my mask, I asked myself 3G’s question: What is it I can learn from this fucking mask? And there are a few things: First, I now know how enraging it must be to women wearing burqas to be asked, Isn’t that thing hot? And I know the answer too: It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. Second, why am I still peering into magnifying mirrors to scissor off my chin whiskers? No one can see me behind the white curtain that covers my face and stifles my breath. Third, I am so

From March 21 to April 19, Other and I did not leave our building. Our 29-year-old daughter had told us that she woke up every morning crying because she was so afraid we would die. I asked her what we could do to help her worry less. She said she wanted us to promise not to leave our apartment for any reason. Weirdly, her usually hands-off brother backed her up. So we foolishly agreed—even though we live across the street from lovely Riverside Park, about as safe a haven as there is in New York City right now. We were faithful to our word, looking sadly through our windows like left-home dogs as our neighbors (and their dogs) headed into the park. A month later, Other’s knees, one of which is made of metal, were aching from disuse, and we called a family meeting to plead for early release, just for walks in the park and just in the early morning or after dark. Last weekend, two pale elderly people tasted afresh the air of spring. And every day since then we’ve strapped on our ma