Reflecting On The Dumpster Fire That Was 2020

What a fucking ride. 

Since most of 2019 was a complete disaster for me, I welcomed the New Year with open arms, looking forward to “seizing the day” and all that shit. 

That would suddenly change when I faced an unforeseen layoff at the end of January, leveling up my “great upheaval” to medallion status.

What a precursor to what would unfold in the year of all years — a year that I still, to this day, cannot believe that I lived to see in my lifetime. 

So I went all cathartic and decided to relive this shit — sing the blues — one more time.

This is 2020.

Taos Ski Valley, New Mexico, a place I wouldn’t mind moving to.

It Was a Good Year For Snowboarding

As they say, timing is everything, and my layoff just happened to fall in line with my dad’s annual ski trip to Taos Ski Valley, New Mexico. But I wasn’t supposed to go on that trip — my plans were to join my dad, brother, sister-in-law, and friends out in Colorado well after the fact.

Dad suggested I bring myself out there to take my mind off things. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be so frivolous knowing I had a marathon on the horizon, but I threw caution to the wind and catapulted myself out west to partake in what Taos calls its Ski and Ride Week. I haven’t so much as taken anything remotely resembling a snowboard lesson since I was 14, so color me nervous about the prospect of being in an adult class over 20 years later.

The employees of Taos Ski Valley know what they’re doing, and Ride Week proved to be both a pure joy and serious kick in my ass. My instructor was a pro and his class comprised of two students, myself being one of them. I learned how to properly switch (even though I still haven’t perfected it). I hiked up a ridge with my board (which I’ve never done before — it was hard), after which I successfully rode down a bowl and even thread the needle between some trees, all without breaking any limbs.

I hadn’t felt this proud of myself in a long, long time, and took this big boost of confidence with me to the slopes of Colorado two weeks later. Still reeling from my layoff, this was precisely the low-key trip I needed. We endured a snowstorm which resulted in a tremendous amount of powder, cameos of my Taos Ride Week partner as well as my friends who live on the Left Coast, a @jerryoftheday in the flesh, and a day trip to A-Basin, a big fat check off my life bucket list. There was even a family trip to the local dispensary, something which my brother and I thought would never happen — not ever — thus foreshadowing what was about to unfold in 2020?

(Edibles sure do come in handy during a pandemic, folks!)

This is what a bad idea looks like.

It Wasn’t a Good Year for Marathoning

I had been eyeing the Los Angeles Marathon for years, and coupled with my fall race being the 50th anniversary of the New York City Marathon, I was pumped for my 2020 race season.

Training came and went — as did my Achilles’ flare — and by the time taper arrived, so did the Coronavirus pandemic, which was making me question whether or not I should be making the trek out to California in the first place.

Spoiler alert: I went anyway — on a full flight, mind you — telling myself that should the race director cancel the marathon, I would run the course at my leisure. (Again, I have zero idea why I even thought this was a good idea at the time, but when you’ve been training for a marathon, you think about things that just don’t make sense. Runners are weird. And also dumb.)

I ran the Los Angeles Marathon on March 8, 2020 — me and 30,000 of my closest friends — at the brink of the pandemic.

And it was a stupid idea.

There is no such thing as social distancing during a marathon. Whether it be a 500- or a 50,000-person race, you need to take other factors into account, like volunteers, aid stations, law enforcement, and spectators. Runners also excel at bodily fluids with sweat being the tip of the iceberg. As soon as the gun went off, I heard Susan’s voice in my head repeatedly telling me, “No spitting, and absolutely zero snot rocketing.”

Luckily I was scared enough of Coronavirus to do neither of these things, but fuck, if it wasn’t hard to do something you’re so used to.

The New York City half was canceled shortly after the Los Angeles Marathon. Race Day was scheduled for March 15; New York City shut down all non-essential businesses on March 16.

Boston, always held the third Monday of April, was postponed shortly thereafter. And then one by one, all of the Marathon Majors and beyond, were canceled — and rightfully so.

I might be the only one in my circle of runner friends who ran a marathon in 2020 that wasn’t virtual. Am I glad I ran it? No. I probably could’ve picked my first solo marathon adventure at a future date.

That said, the minute I can sign up for a marathon — regardless of location, or field size, or cost — bitch, take my money. I cannot wait to get back out there and toe the line with random strangers to only compete with myself.

And I look forward to it.

Behold, the virtual Brooklyn Half Marathon start and finish line.

It Was a Good Year to Shack Up With One of Your Besties (For Me, At Least)

While I was in California, the state of the world was accelerating with great speed.

I watched San Francisco go on lockdown, and while waiting for my near-empty flight back to New York City I received a text from my parents urging me to make moves to North Carolina. At the very same time, one of my friends was being urged by his parents to make moves down to his homestate of Georgia. 

And after a series of flights, Brian and I ended up reconvening at my parents’ house — fate took hold. What we thought would be two weeks ended up being the first four months of the pandemic. So this certainly begs for one question in particular: how in the actual fuck did we not manage to kill each other? 

Honestly, I don’t know. Aside from my former spouse, neither of us have had a roommate in years and had no idea what to expect. 

But Coronavirus leaves an ample amount of room for communication, and BH and I are probably way too communicative for most humans as it is, so it worked out in our favor.

I taught him how to cook the basics, he taught me the simplicity of floral arrangements. We took grocery trips together, shared chores, puzzles, books, driving duties, the same office space which was in fact the kitchen table, and are basically an old married couple at this point. (I’m fairly certain my niece thinks “Mr. Brian” is her uncle…or her boyfriend. Jury’s still out.) 

It also helps that, not only do we communicate with each other, but we also read a room — he knows when my mood shifts and vice versa. (And we did have a spat, but oddly enough we were both back in New York and not living together at the time. Go figure.) 

If anything, this pandemic has taught the both of us to cherish those we’re closest to, and how to love and be patient with one another. (Or not!) I’m thankful for the time that I’ve spent with not only him, but as well as my other “pod members.”

My favorite mirror selfie partner in crime.

And Coronavirus Dating Is As Bad As You Think

If dating via multiple apps in your mid-thirties — and post-divorce — isn’t bad enough, behold, I give you a global pandemic where most men are literally just looking for someone to sleep with, which is quite the opposite of social distancing and “sticking to your household.” 

When I decided to dive into the dating app waters in early 2020 (beautiful timing!), I found myself less hate-swiping and more chance-giving. My married friends were here for it — apparently there is nothing more juicy and intriguing than your single friend who just got out of a near-decade long relationship entering the dating world. 

And goddamnit, looking back on it, it was intriguing. (Though I was the one living it, and it certainly wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.) 

I dated the “Supes Casual Guy” in August, who walked around New York sans-mask because, “it was fine,” and who also wanted to go for “drinks and apps” — not dinner — at precisely 8 p.m. And when asked what appetizer he fancied, he simply chose the humble chicken fingers, and when I asked how he preferred them he responded as such: “Plain. I don’t like to mask the flavor of anything.”

Of what? The fryer oil? Supes Casual Guy also dropped mid-date that he was polyamorous, which is something I wasn’t really on board with pre-pandemic. Did I mention this person is a psychotherapist? Thank you, next. 

You know what’s not a good idea? Swiping and matching with people while you’re extremely hungover on the couch after spending a night with your friend who just relocated to the city. (My excitement to hang with Lorenzo, photo above, led to many, many glasses of wine that were had over bar hopping — which is, again, not something you can easily do in New York during Covid times — and so my monumental hangover was justified.) Anyway, “Mr. Peacock” was swift to invite me over to his swank apartment on Central Park South where I was asked to “help” fold laundry while sipping on a bottle of red wine he just opened. “It’s totes safe,” he said. “I have a doorman who checks your temperature and I live on the 15th floor,” he said.

It was 3 p.m.

“How about, no,” I said.

And after I was scolded by a best friend for constantly avoiding red flags, I decided to give “Mr. Nice Guy” a shot, which led to several (several) text messages that were laced with smiley emojis and bookended with LOLs. The flooded texts were so much so, that I was opting to keep my personal level of cynicism over a potential boyfriend. But when a random stranger whom you’ve never met is the first person to wish you a happy birthday at 1:15 a.m., cynicism wins.

Instant block.

I don’t know whether these guys are lonely, or horny, or whether I’m just being too damn pandemic-picky about who I date (which at this point I find to be completely fair). But I cannot stress enough that I have seen both sides of the coin this past year, with single friends going through similar shit that has resulted in a lot of, ‘nu-uh, fuck right off’ behavior, and friends jumping into a clear-cut pandemic relationship. 

And if someone tells you that dating during these times is terrible, they are 100 percent valid in their statement. So don’t ask.

Look! It’s my “household” at Khe-yo in Tribeca.

Turns Out I’m a Pro at Outdoor Dining

Bojana’s baby shower was held on March 15 at El Vez in Lower Manhattan; we called it “The Last Supper.”

Little did I know that that would be the last time that I would dine at a restaurant — whether outdoors or indoors — until June. 

By May, dining out in North Carolina was alive and well, no doubt due to lax rules and warm (mostly hot) temperatures. Over time, my roommates and I started easing up on our dining out anxieties, and so we partook in it as much as possible — not always easy given that the masses were heading to the beaches for a weekend getaway and thus taking over all the outdoor space. 

But we longed for our favorite haunts in New York — news of glorious outdoor setups bedecked with foliage and legal to-go cocktails made it all the more clear that it was time for us to return home.

We drove back to New York City on July 7. I cried when we emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel and Siri welcomed us to New York.

But shortly upon our return, things changed. Thanks to douchelords who needed to get their drink on, our local Italian governor had instilled a new law throughout the boroughs where any drink purchase must be accompanied by food — and the rules were arbitrary. For dives, this could be a soft pretzel with mustard or a portioned-out hoagie; for the average restaurant, this meant a casual nacho plate, tray of local oysters, Korean-fried broccoli, or the glamorous $15 crudité plate.

I have been told that liquor purchases shouldn’t supersede food purchases, that food purchases had to reach a certain minimum, and that Cuomo fries, which were very, very common when this law first came into place suddenly “weren’t allowed.” 

Regardless, dining outdoors in New York during the summer became adaptable. Long runs were planned according to favorite stomping grounds — we climbed the massive hill on Broadway to get to Jacob’s Pickles; we crossed waters for a final tomato sandwich at Egg in Williamsburg; and one of us got lost in Crown Heights en route to the best hummus at Miss Ada. (That someone was me.) I walked five miles to the West Village or Astoria for a cocktail. The weather was nice, so why shouldn’t I get out of my neighborhood and support local? 

Then the act of dining out drew similar to that of a ballet. Bar crawl? Okay, how many acts are there? One particular performance included a summer corn and ricotta start at Fairfax, followed by oysters and steak tartare at Pastis (finally!), and then a finale of olives at … wherever we were at. (Who knows where you are at after 5 p.m. when you’ve consumed two gin martinis and multiple glasses of wine?) 

I championed the fuck out of this, and so did my friends. We sat through torrential downpours and high winds, all the while asking each other where our next meal would be.

But a multiple act dinner performance is completely fine until temperatures start to dip — and that’s where things start to get tricky. I recently read a New York Times article about the art of dining out during New York City winters, and, the writer isn’t wrong: “Glorious dinners turned into long afternoon lunches out, all so we could enjoy our meal in whatever sunshine we could.” 

We pivoted from dinner dates to warmer lunches, making reservations at restaurants that had really good outdoor setups outfitted with heat lamps and ventilated drapery, which, to be perfectly honest, do zero when temperatures are below freezing, but we’re supporting local, so who the fuck cares?! 

“Bring your outdoor dining accoutrements,” I would exclaim. And we did. 

We even acclimated our long runs as such, filling our (my) running backpacks with extra layers, scarves, hats, gloves, and even hand warmers — all so we could enjoy the meal and drinks to follow. And it didn’t matter, numb fingers and toes be damned, because we were out of the house, eating and drinking at a restaurant of our choosing, and thus feeling that sense of “normalcy.” 

I made a child’s charcuterie board and macaroni and cheese for my niece. That is all.

2021 Is Just 2020 Part Deux

I returned to North Carolina in mid-December for the holiday season and then some.

I rung in the New Year just like any other Thursday night in 2020, drinking wine with my NC pod until I was fast asleep on the sofa by 11:20 p.m.

I’ll be brutally honest when I say that the last several weeks have been extremely dark for me. Every so often I’ll catch a glimpse of what my pre-pandemic life used to look like, and then I’m swiftly reminded that we’re still in this. We’re still doing what we’ve been doing for nearly a year.

I’m lucky that I’m able to spend time with my family (pending those negative test results, mind you).

I still strongly support local — even if it’s one of the handfuls of restaurants I visit here in Wilmington.

I’m lucky that I’m back up and running.

Maura Judkis wrote a very poignant piece for the Washington Post comparing Covid fatigue to that of hitting the marathon wall. This is a conversation I’ve been having repeatedly for the better part of a month now — we’re all experiencing that huge piece of shit that is “the wall,” feeling completely depleted and wondering how much more of a beating we can take to reach the finish line.

At a recent outdoor lunch, my mother almost came to tears stating that even though she has gotten her first vaccine round, she fears not much will change for her, at least not for several months. “Your father and I don’t do much,” she told me. “I don’t know when we’re going to dine at a restaurant indoors again.”

A few days later, my childhood friend and I expressed our yearn to travel beyond the state border. She has friends planning far-flung trips as early as June, which seems like a pipe dream for me. I hope to take a family trip abroad in September, but I’m not counting my chickens before they hatch.

I’m not like the bulk of runners whose wall miles are between 18 and 20 — mine happen early on at miles 10 through 12. To say that being stuck here at whatever mile we’re at hasn’t amplified and pushed the boundaries of my anxiety and depression is an understatement. I’ve gone through days where I don’t talk to anyone (including my therapist), days that I sleep through, and days where I’d like to drown out the noise by listening to music. This pandemic may as well be the longest ultramarathon ever recorded, and certainly with the most amount of participants.

But I’ve learned something over the years that I constantly keep telling myself, something that Judkis also references in her WaPo piece: keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

I remember years ago being in a funk where even running didn’t bring me joy. I texted Claire one morning saying as such and she told me to lace up my sneaks and head outside.

“Start walking,” she said. “After a few steps, you’ll probably pick up your pace and start running. And even if you don’t, you’re still walking — you’re still moving forward.”