Having a Wonderful Time. Glad You’re Not Here. – Charlotte Magazine

An open letter to a dearly departed foe

Dear Pandemic,

Are you surprised to hear from me? When we parted ways, I made it clear that I never wanted to hear from you again. Although in retrospect, “I hope the door hits you in your vaccine arm” was a little harsh, I suppose.

Mostly, Pan—and yes, I feel like we lived together long enough to be on a first-syllable basis—I don’t miss you a bit. I don’t miss the terror of a random cough in the night, the cold sweat that came with every one of those “I regret to inform you that I tested positive” emails. I don’t miss the supermarket Russian roulette that was my weekly shopping list. (Is this the week we’ll have to replace toilet paper with old Christmas wrapping paper, or the year when I have to make Thanksgiving dinner out of minced Lunchables?) I’ve always appreciated exercising my resourcefulness, but I don’t miss spray-cleaning the covers of The New Yorker.

Oh, and “mask breath.” I really, really don’t miss that. Sacrificing onions and garlic was a high price, even for personal comfort. For that matter, I don’t miss mask hair, or mask sweat, or that fog on my glasses every time I tried to do something trivial, like breathe.

Still, as time moves on, I do find myself missing a few things about you. Ironic, isn’t it? Yes, you were an obnoxious roommate, but even an obnoxious roommate picks up half the rent.

I miss the way you made it possible to make a right turn onto Providence Road at 8 a.m. on a weekday. No looking, no pausing—just turning right with all the heady confidence of a first grader belting out the ABC song. Come to think of it, I miss turning left on Providence—I had no idea you could get to the Arboretum without circling all the way around Mint Hill.

I miss the way my friends who had never even opened a can of biscuits were suddenly experts on baking bread. (“Why, yes, I did know sourdough starter would grow like that. No, I don’t want a sample of yours. I already have a pet.”) I really appreciated the way you made us all think about what happens when the people who grow, sell, and handle our food don’t get paid enough to stay home when they’re sick. 

What we pay equals what we get. London School of Economics—call me.

Being an introvert, I realize I was probably more content than most to stay inside my house. The book stack by my bed hadn’t been that low since college, when I couldn’t afford to buy any book that wasn’t a used textbook. I finally had time to binge all those TV series I had been meaning to watch. So many catchphrases from the 1990s finally make sense to me now. (The truth is out there, Scully. You should have teamed up with Buffy.)

Since you left, Pan, I’ve had to learn to be comfortable around crowds again. I get nostalgic at the sight of those “6 feet apart” markers spray-painted on sidewalks. I miss having the power to make someone back up with just a stern look.

And yes, as much as I hated mask sweat in July, I do miss the coziness of covering the bottom half of my face in January. Not even Jack Frost can nip a masked nose—if you actually pulled your mask up over your nose, of course.

Just the other day, I spotted a recipe for a sourdough starter. And I considered it. Briefly. Then I went back to playing with my dog.

Now, if some smart entrepreneur would come up with an easy way to get rid of that sticky residue that the sanitizers left on wooden restaurant tables, we wouldn’t have to think about you at all, Pan.

So yes, if I concentrate really hard, I can think of a few times when I miss you.

But not enough to ever want you back.

KATHLEEN PURVIS is a longtime Charlotte writer who covers Southern food and culture.