UNDER COVID, PT. 33: THROUGH A LENS, FOGGILY

"Endless Endless": Kraftwerk wrote the soundtrack
for COVID decades ago.

Eight months have passed since my first "Under COVID" piece, and there's no definitive end in site. These essays might not be going up as frequently, because there's just so many times one can talk about shuttered businesses, kids going to school via laptops, limited indoor dining, and whatever else that has made New York just a larger version of any hamlet in the country. Oh, and still more expensive, too.

When the parade returns, they should 
definitely bring back whatever the hell this
is supposed to be.

Of course, what separates my city from most others is the number of tourists ready to drop their dough on over-priced tickets for Broadway shows and, if they're here for the holidays, Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular, and the living hell known as New Year's Eve in Times Square -- all of which are now designated CLOSED FOR THE DURATION. What will Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen have to chat about on December 31st this year? And will it be any different than previous years?

Small wonder, then, that New York's tourism board predicts that the number of visitors won't reach pre-COVID levels until 2025. That's the year Trump expects to be president for his long-delayed second term, which, if it really does happen, will definitely keep away international tourists. 

They are. I'm staying home and getting blitzed.

On the bright side, people now have a perfectly legit reason to avoid family visits during the holidays. It's been a long time since we've had Thanksgiving at home instead of at the in-laws, meaning I can drink to my heart's content rather than being sober in order to drive home for 90 minutes in the dark, all the while muttering that I could have made a better meal. 

What separates New Yorkers from other areas of the country is that we've accepted -- welcomed, even -- the idea that protective masks are here to stay, at least until a vaccine reaches the general populace. The only people who have any kind of a problem are eyeglasses-wearers like me. 

It would help if I could figure out how to do
this.

If the air is dry, it tends not to be a problem. But if the humidity rises above 10%, then it's like trying to see through a London fog bank. I'm forever misjudging the location of the curb or how far away other pedestrians are. It's doubly annoying when they remain fogged up when I enter a grocery store. 

While shopping, I find myself sliding my glasses down my nose an inch while peering over the frames like a cynical prosecutor cross-examining a murder suspect who claims his wife accidentally slipped and fell on the butcher knife, when all I'm trying to do is figure out if the strawberries at the bottom of the carton have turned rotten.

I'm allowed an occasional 1060 calorie meal.
1280 with fries.

This steam-lens problem proved rather embarrassing over the weekend. Lately, we've been picking up our Sunday dinners from various restaurants in the neighborhood, rather them preparing them ourselves (make that myself). This past weekend, we were in the mood for a fine repast from Bareburger, whose name makes obvious their primary entrees. 

After placing our orders online, I walked the six blocks to the restaurant in the early autumn darkness. The air was chilly and damp, steaming up my glasses even more than usual, which makes crossing the street a hazard after sunset.

I'm surprised I didn't tip him.

But that wasn't the problem this time. It was after I exited the restaurant with our burgers, when, still unable to see through my glasses, I said "Excuse me" as I passed by a figure near the doorway. It was a second later I realized that the figure I was so respectful to was the wooden bear standing guard outside. 

It was the first pandemic-related story that made my wife laugh. COVID, then, can be a funny thing if you wait long enough. It should be a riot by the summer of 2021.

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