Cuties and Mayonnaise and Beer By Jamie Paul

Cuties and Mayonnaise and Beer

By Jamie Paul

My mask has little cartoon Hermiones all over it. I ordered it off of Etsy. I’m fairly excited about wearing it to get cuties, mayonnaise, and beer at Target.

And that’s how you know we are living with a pandemic.

I love Hermione, and supporting creative types on Etsy.

And yet I have always felt the terror of immediate suffocation when faced with a situation in which my face lacks direct contact with copious amounts of air.

It seems to me that other people have claustrophobia.

I have don’t-touch-my-airway-with-that-and-it-better-be-a-walk-in-closet-roll-down-the-damn window phobia.

When I was little, washing my face was a serious ordeal. Tears. Hyperventilating. Red hot terror. It still requires a deep breath. You have gotta check that air.

I wore a plastic mask one Halloween, the kind with only a little hole in the lips and two small holes for your nostrils, elastic banded onto my face. I only had it on for the Polaroid. Forty years later, I can feel it sweating on my nose and my lips. The ghost of that sweat makes me breathe deep at odd moments. Like now.

Putting shirts on over my head involved a pep talk well into middle school.

Turtle necks? Deathtraps more like.

Scarves? Hell no.

Yet, in spite of the terror in my throat, I bought a mask that covers my nose and my mouth and hooks behind my trembling ears.

I bought a mask because it’s 2020, and I don’t want 200,000 people to die because I was scared.

But when I get to Target, to get my cuties, and my mayonnaise, and my beer, my mask isn’t in my little bag with my wallet and my phone and my keys.

I come home without my oranges or my mayonnaise or my beer.

I come home without getting out of my car.

My mask is sitting on the floor, right inside my door.

I take a deep breath and walk my dog instead.

Maybe I’ll go to Target next week.