Last night was a good night. It was the second Friday of the lockdown.
The Disney+ marathon continued with Wreck it Ralph.
We ate too much Ben and Jerry’s (The Tonight Dough). And ofc, the mandatory Rosé.
As I threw the tarp over the grill and turned off the terrace lights, I looked up in stunning bewilderment.
Stars. Everywhere. The big dipper. An exquisitely shaped crescent moon.
The four of us gazed in awe at the beauty. It was the IRL version of Good Night Moon.
As the virus infiltrates our communities and shutters the global economy, there’s a silver lining. We’ve accidentally begun the largest coordinated reduction in carbon emissions.
So those LA stars (not Lebron, but the astronomical kind)? For the last three weeks, the LA air quality has a streak of “green.” (That’s more than the stock market can say.)
Let that sink in. For the first time in years, the air in LA is actually clean enough for you to breath.
Which also means you can see stars at night.
Is it just me, or have the last 3 weeks felt like one giant Throwback Thursday?
Families are strolling the neighborhood at dusk waving to their (socially distant) neighbors.
We are cutting our loved ones’ hair.
Board games are making a comeback.
We’re discovering new spaces in our own homes.
I, for one, am gearing up for a monster weekend of hanging. And I’m thrilled.
Toilet paper (or the lack thereof) is probably the best gauge of our collective angst.
Now without getting graphic, I suspect that you’re quite meticulous in using just enough with each bathroom trip.
I also suspect that you’re licking the plate clean on your leftovers. No edible food is ending up in the trash.
And just like that, we’re homing in on what’s enough.
And surprising ourselves with the answer: “A lot less than you think.”
Before the virus, it was easy to numb yourself by pursuing more.
Struggling in your relationship? Book a trip to the Four Seasons.
Don’t know what makes you happy? Get a Tesla.
Bored at work? Justify the misery by buying a bigger house.
And in the pursuit of more we lathered ourselves in FOMO and were paralyzed by the paradox of choice.
It turned us into machines for more.
What does more look like today? It looks like just enough.
And just enough, it turns out, is pretty rad.
When the scepter of the virus wanes and normalcy returns, what will “more” look like to you?
For me it will be hugging my parents in New York. Bringing my kids to a playdate. Going to our local sushi joint with Lisa. Eating tacos with my homies. Surfing with my Marine Avenue Posse.
They closed the beaches yesterday, so all these things still seem pretty far away.
But they’ll be back.
And just enough will be splendid.