Tomorrow, I find a restaurant with a huge outdoor patio and indulge in a fresh, hot Burger and fries. And, definitely, a cold draft beer. At minimum, I’ll go get a haircut.
That’s how I plan to celebrate the end of my state imposed, 14-day self-quarantine for the high crime of vacationing in a COVID-19 hotspot even though while there I didn’t go out for a burger or a beer or anything vaguely vacationy beyond sitting on the spacious beach beyond our rental’s back deck for hours and hours. I won’t name the location to protect the many conspiracy theorists who permanently live there, but I’ll offer hints. It’s a state where:
- face masks only became required in public settings in late June,
- indoor dining is allowed at 50 percent capacity, and
- the riskiest behavior I undertook was showing my Blue State issued driver’s license to the Good Ol’ Boy behind the register at the ABC store.
“Y’all a Yankee?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I replied. “I root for whoever they’re playing.”
He sized me up and down, briefly lifted his Chinese-made KN95 camo patterned mask to empty the accumulation between his cheek and gum into a paper cup, and said, “Doncha mean ‘whomever,’ Yalie?”
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