Ordinary Things in Extraordinary Times

On my last pre-quarantine trip to Goodwill, I found an extraordinary pair of vintage velvet flats. Too eager to save them for a special occasion, I wore them with jeans on an ordinary day off that included running errands, meeting my mom for ramen, and climbing a play structure that is now covered in “closed” signs and caution tape. 

“These are extraordinary times.” I find this declaration almost daily in my inbox, followed by a pep talk in a mass email or (god forbid) another nudge to buy more athleisure for #wfh. Though accurate, “extraordinary times” seems like a euphemism for everything that is happening right now. “Extraordinary” is a word I typically reserve for exceedingly good things, like stories of everlasting love, or pufferfish art, or a plate of pasta that seems impossibly delicious for how simple or dairy-free it is. In contrast, today’s extraordinary reality involves running low on toilet paper during a toilet paper shortage, calculating how long a roll should last, and planning the inevitable trip to my parents’ that will involve a no-contact exchange, toilet paper for wine, on the front lawn. We will wave, but we won’t hug.

I’m trying to appreciate the ordinary things as if they were exceedingly-good-extraordinary. I’m staying in touch, reviving long-forgotten threads of text messages and scheduling virtual happy hours. I’m baking vegan sunbutter Tagalongs and savoring the smell of shortbread as it rises upstairs. I’m working, a blessing despite the frustrations of remote teaching. I’m reminding myself that “need” is a relative term. Like “ordinary.”