Wibbly Wobby Time

Wibbly Wobbly Time

Lots of folks are having trouble remembering what day of the week it is, now that most of us are away from the structure of work week and weekend, of scheduled meetings and events. It’s a problem I solved when I retired nine years ago. I update my universal calendar with the date and day of the week each morning while I’m getting dressed. 

When I need reminding during the day, I ask myself what day it is and answer accordingly. If I’m unclear, all I have to do is wake up the iThing in my breast pocket; its wakeup screen has the time, date, and day of the week in nice big print. Nope, I usually know what day of the week it is, however meaningless that distinction may seem these days.

My problem is with what time feels like; it seems to stretch and contract at whim. A single day can last forever, or I can look back at a complete vacuum where the last week should be. 

I made a point of restarting my daily journal in early March in part because I sensed that these times would be especially slippery; I wanted to keep track of what was happening and how I felt about it. My memory for what happened and when it happened is particularly bad, so I hoped a written record would anchor me more firmly in time. Maybe it would help me navigate the stormy seas that had come to us all.

Not that I’m keeping track of how many days we’ve been in lockdown; that way lies madness. It’s going to be months if not years before we seniors can blithely head outside with no concern for contagion. I just wanted to lay down a trail of where I’ve been so I can look back on some record of my travails and accomplishments, worries and appreciations.

It has helped some, having a written record to review. But what a weird time we’re living through. The days when I was glued to televised impeachment hearings seem like another lifetime. Worry about who made the better showing at the candidate debates seems utterly trivial now.

We might have to develop new means of marking time: the last time we ate with friends at a restaurant; when we understood our age made us especially likely to die from this; when we learned what ‘flattening the curve’ and ‘social distancing’ meant; when we learned about the hotspots in nursing homes, prisons, and meat-packing plants; etc. etc.

I don’t know. Maybe the only times that matter are ‘before’ and ‘now.’