Picture the ragged end of a birthday party, the trampled streamers and the cake gutted by individual knives hunting for seconds, Mylar balloons as they droop over the lawn chairs. Picture the sweaty, blister-heeled end of a day at the local amusement park, or the crinkle of aluminum foil covering leftover pork at the Lions Club Labor Day picnic. You're starting to descend from the funnel cake sugar high. You've been on your feet, winning a goldfish in a plastic bag, or on a roller coaster, or musical chairing as hard as you can in your classmate’s backyard. Your whole body is ringing from the stimuli: the heat and bright colors, the intense flavors and loud noises of a Big Day. You're five or six or seven years old and have no clue you are exhausted, no clue you could contain so much pleasure. Give it another twenty minutes, and you'll be in tears.
On such days, my mom would cue our departure (and head off meltdowns) by corralling my sister and me. Glassy-eyed as the adrenaline left our bodies, mouths smeared with remnants of blue icing, we'd look up and remember that she was our mother, that we were not just rocks submerged under a waterfall of delight.
"Well?" she'd ask, "Have we had just about all the fun we can stand?"
We would totter in diagonal lines to the car, necks pink from the sun, and fall asleep immediately in the backseat.
I thought that post-vaccinated socializing would feel like the rush of the school carnival. I'd emerge in an extroverted blaze of glory, eager to meet up and have lunch and hop on the train to another borough, then another, then another, cramming in the funnel cake sweetness of unmasked conversation and collapsing at the end in a happy, sunburned, satiated heap.
After my vaccine in February, I enjoyed the mental downshift from "constant dread" to "cautious normalcy, mask edition" and it was indeed a real rush, on par with my first-ever game of musical chairs, to take my mask off in my own apartment with two vaccinated friends. But recently I considered the possibility that, on Saturday, I would go to brunch in one borough with friends, then go to another borough for dinner with different friends. To my surprise, I could barely conjure up the joy these outings promised. My brain skipped right to the crash, to the exhaustion of physically and mentally getting there and being there and specifically being worried there. I felt the weight of two different outings' worth of safety questions and logistics. Vaccinated, yes or no? How long ago? Responsible, mask-wearing otherwise? Outdoor tables at the restaurant? Sufficient heat lamps? Genuine social distance between tables or economic-survival-social distance? Compliant masking among the other diners?Predicted wind chill? Table availability? Cost? Is this all worth it? Then I had the same set of questions all over again for the dinner plans. The balloons were deflating, and the party hadn't even begun.
But I rallied. I pictured myself in a training montage about a demanding physical regimen, only instead of punching an Everlast bag and running stadium steps, I was sitting at a restaurant table with friends unmasked and riding the subway at least three times in a day, socializing my way valiantly back to normal. I took a deep breath and told my boyfriend, somewhat dramatically, that as long as we were together, we could do it.
This was a silly dilemma about how to manage my limited Saturday energy after a year of doing basically nothing, but it made me realize that, germ-wise, I've only operated with extreme caution or near-total abandon. Either I’ve worn surgical gloves to handle pasta at the grocery store or, in what now feels like a past life, I’ve chatted unmasked with a stranger on a crowded train at the height of flu season. At this moment, to emerge “protected” only to dodge and weave around remaining risks, to act within the conditional safety of my vaccination, feels exhausting.
Learning the mental gymnastics required to make plans that are safe enough is a little like when I first moved to New York City and learned how expensive it can be to eat and drink here, especially when one drink, let alone full meals, can cost so much money ("If you're sitting down indoors, you're paying at least $15," a friend helpfully explained). After a few months of overspending and taking the high prices personally, I learned to expect them, to suggest a walk instead of a cocktail, and, like George Costanza, to find and remember the few free bathrooms. It can be done, but it takes some time. It's a little bit harder than it should be, and it's okay to stay home if it just seems like too much trouble. Maybe the same applies to socializing while we're still on the way to herd immunity.
About 42% of New York State has received a dose or a first dose, and the mayor of New York City just announced that vaccine sites will take walk-ins. A quarter of the country's adults are fully immunized. This spring is a season of half-safety: the tulips are in bloom, and lots of restaurants have outdoor space, but it's still pretty chilly. The old vigilance is like a hangover, and nationally the daily infection rate is still much higher than it was a year ago, in April of 2020. Despite dreams of post-vaccination, amusement park-style social abandon, I'm in less of a hurry to race outside than I thought I'd be. I guess I need more time to get used to the idea that there are ways to be safe enough, and that "safe enough" is very different from "back to normal." That Saturday dinner we were talking about? Postponed, and I felt nothing but relief. For now, one thing per day may be all the fun I can stand.