• Meg Pasz

The New Abnormal

I'm disorganized. It's not new or a symptom of the widely referenced "Corona-coaster" where everything is "unprecedented" in a "new normal." Please. Stop with the unprecedented. We believe you.

I was disorganized just as much in the late 80's as I am today. Only now, it's infiltrated my mind. I've packed buckets of tasks in my rapidly declining brain, like stored food for winter, and demand they will all get done. It's not getting done. Nothing is done. It's barely medium rare.

I should keep it on the flame, develop the flavor a little longer - even let it rest for 10 minutes to lock in the moisture. Instead, I serve it before its ready, often to unsatisfied customers.

Yet, here's a question: Does anyone feel any other way right now?

Who cares if I'm disorganized? The world is still a high-functioning burning building, where we all continue to work and live and drink and dance and enjoy our children in our pajamas well into the afternoon. It's painfully stressful, often beautiful and stands no chance to be organized. Even still, I care very much that I'm disorganized. I also care that only the lower half of my face is sagging, while the top is sinking. But I still like my face from a safe distance in restaurant restroom lighting. Even before masks.

There are things I still like. I just have to do them more.

I like to blast unpopular, female-forward music while braising some sort of meat and drinking old-timey cocktails with my husband on a Tuesday. I like watching Nora Ephron movies with my daughter and relishing in her ability to understand the humor at 9. I like letting loose with my friends, even if every experience is now soaked in alcohol. Fermented friendships are the purest friendships, after all.

Disorganized. Unsettled. Uncertain.


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