Pat M. has been a friend since law school. He lives in a suburb of Seattle, but we haven't gotten together for many months. Finally, we agreed to meet and catch up this morning. Not inside a house or a coffee shop. We'd walk and talk. Wearing masks. And we'd talk loudly across six feet of empty space while walking.
But yesterday, he emailed. Within the last ten days, he'd been to three doctors' appointments, including a dermatology examination on Wednesday. I had earlier outlined my own two-week history, which was pretty clear of disqualifying events.
We decided to postpone our walk for two weeks.
Too bad. Great weather for walking today. Sunny. Temperature headed for 79 degrees (26º C) this afternoon. And we have lots of things, things occurring since our last visit, to talk (i.e., complain) about.
But it's not worth risking an end to either of our lives -- under sedation in an ICU, with a tube down our throats.
We're not kids in our 20s, where the risks are less obvious. Not like my next door neighbors, who have loud, boisterous parties in their back yard each weekend.
And so goes life in this year of grace, 2020. We'll still get together. In two weeks. But spontaneity is a virtue that has disappeared, at least temporarily, from our lives.
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