Write a journal entry from the pandemic.
I can’t remember the last time I kept a journal. I used to write constantly as a little girl: in colorful notebooks gifted to me at Christmas or on my birthday. I always abandoned them when they were half full. Maybe a quarter if I was “busy.” The truth is, I abandoned them when I realized no one but me cared about what I had to say; when I had stopped caring; when I realized I wasn’t particularly profound. That may happen this time around, too.

The difference now is that even if I don’t say anything profound: the timing is profound. We’re living through a global pandemic, hiding in our homes, hoping we aren’t infected and unknowingly infecting others. Avoiding people on the sidewalk when we go for walks, immediately wanting to wash our hands when picking something up after the grocery store after waiting in line for an hour.

Yesterday, it was my turn to go grocery shopping. My partner had been making the majority of our runs. The last time I joined him was weeks ago, before you could expect a line around the block. We had woken up early on a Saturday, and it was lightly raining, so I convinced him we should go to the Mollie Stones up the street to beat everyone there. About 12 people were lined up when we arrived, and we huddled under a tiny floral umbrella that lives in the trunk of our car.

I had charged this particular umbrella to my corporate card when on a work trip to London, and even though it’s barely functional, I won’t throw it out. Opening it to cover us while waiting outside Mollie Stones, I daydreamed of going back to London. Of traveling at all. Of being able to run into a grocery store for brunch ingredients, and nothing more. Mollie Stones was always our destination for brunch ingredients after a particularly aggressive night out. I missed nights out: crowded bars where you had to raise your voice just to be heard, and yet were still annoyed when your best friend would scream into your ear. 

I managed to get through that trip to Mollie Stones without crying. The last time my partner and I went to that Mollie Stones, it was the Sunday before Mayor Breed directed San Francisco to shelter in place. There weren’t any social distancing requirements, and the store was overrun by frantic shoppers. People bumped into each other in the aisles. The paper goods had been ransacked. The oat milk was nowhere to be found. We chose Mollie Stones because it’s the most expensive grocery store in San Francisco, and we didn’t think everyone would be stocking up there. But this is San Francisco, so we were wrong. I saw an elderly woman moving slowly through the store and started to hyperventilate. My partner wasn’t far, so I managed to find him and take a few deep breaths so I could avoid a panic attack.

So, you can understand why I wasn’t looking forward to my first solo grocery run. I chose the Costco in SOMA because so few people live south of Market, and it was the middle of the work week: maybe you can sneak away from Zoom meetings for a quick trip to Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, but Costco is an adventure, a commitment. Well, hundreds were as committed as I was. Probably to securing 30 rolls of toilet paper.

I pulled into the Costco parking garage at 10am as it was opening. No cars waiting to enter, which I took as a good sign. Note to self: there are no good signs in a pandemic. After I finally found a parking spot, I meandered around the lot only to find myself at the back of what felt like a makeshift never-ending airport security line, hastily created with caution tape and lazily monitored by a Costco employee in a face mask with megaphone. Every few minutes, he would remind us to stay six feet apart.

Despite being hopeful about the wait, I came prepared. My face was completely covered by a N95 mask, which I admit, I felt guilty about. Healthcare workers all over America needed PPE, and here I was, waiting in line at Costco wearing one piece of the ensemble. I had purchased a 10-pack after the last fire season and had broken the seal on the pack, making them impossible to donate. My mask makes me feel like a child or a cartoon character: it spans from my chin to the bottom of my eyelids. To complement it, I’m rocking ski gloves (plastic are almost impossible to come by), and have multiple episodes of The Daily downloaded on my phone. I take my spot at the back of the line, which has six or so switchbacks, and settle in to catch up with Michael Barbaro. 

I’ve been listening to The Daily for over a year now: almost everyday, either on my commute or while working out in the morning. But since quarantining, I’ve sadly kicked the habit. Without a gym or a ride to work, it doesn’t easily fit into my schedule. I miss Michael’s “and here’s what else you need to know today.”

The first episode up features a conversation with Paul Mozur, a technology reporter based in Asia — originally Shanghai. He, along with a handful of other American reporters, were unceremoniously banned from China and forced to leave the country, and he shared both his emotional reaction and the reasons why. 

I then chose “voices of the pandemic,” an episode cut into four parts: reporters talking to Americans impacted by the pandemic in Pittsburgh, Kansas City, New York and Seattle. Parents who are now homeschooling their screaming toddlers. A former waitress now living in her car trying to get a job at a grocery store, but unable to locate her birth certificate. A nurse who can no longer see her grandchildren because she’s treating COVID patients. I teared up listening to her recall the first night in the hospital when they confirmed two cases of COVID-19. She felt a sense of purpose and camaraderie with her coworkers, but realized almost immediately that it meant she wouldn’t be able to host her weekly sleepover with her grandchildren. She described in detail the room she decorated for them in her house, and how their beds will remain empty for weeks.

Three Daily episodes in, and I’m finally making progress in the Costco line, winding up the ramp, where red tape at our feet clearly marks the required 6-foot gap between you and the people in front and behind you. Once inside the massive warehouse, I chart a course to the paper goods and make it my mission to secure toilet paper and paper towels. A success on that front makes the wait feel worthwhile, and I start to check items off my list with purpose. Although Costco employees are strategically placed throughout the warehouse, every so often lifting a megaphone to remind shoppers to stay six feet apart, there are a few ways that make this Costco trip rather typical: I pack my shopping cart to the brim, spend far too much money, and rush out the door. More than anything, I can’t wait to take my mask off.
Below is an instruction that describes a task, paired with an input that provides further context. Write a response that appropriately completes the request.
### Instruction: Write a journal entry from the pandemic.
### Input: 
### Response: I can’t remember the last time I kept a journal. I used to write constantly as a little girl: in colorful notebooks gifted to me at Christmas or on my birthday. I always abandoned them when they were half full. Maybe a quarter if I was “busy.” The truth is, I abandoned them when I realized no one but me cared about what I had to say; when I had stopped caring; when I realized I wasn’t particularly profound. That may happen this time around, too.

The difference now is that even if I don’t say anything profound: the timing is profound. We’re living through a global pandemic, hiding in our homes, hoping we aren’t infected and unknowingly infecting others. Avoiding people on the sidewalk when we go for walks, immediately wanting to wash our hands when picking something up after the grocery store after waiting in line for an hour.

Yesterday, it was my turn to go grocery shopping. My partner had been making the majority of our runs. The last time I joined him was weeks ago, before you could expect a line around the block. We had woken up early on a Saturday, and it was lightly raining, so I convinced him we should go to the Mollie Stones up the street to beat everyone there. About 12 people were lined up when we arrived, and we huddled under a tiny floral umbrella that lives in the trunk of our car.

I had charged this particular umbrella to my corporate card when on a work trip to London, and even though it’s barely functional, I won’t throw it out. Opening it to cover us while waiting outside Mollie Stones, I daydreamed of going back to London. Of traveling at all. Of being able to run into a grocery store for brunch ingredients, and nothing more. Mollie Stones was always our destination for brunch ingredients after a particularly aggressive night out. I missed nights out: crowded bars where you had to raise your voice just to be heard, and yet were still annoyed when your best friend would scream into your ear. 

I managed to get through that trip to Mollie Stones without crying. The last time my partner and I went to that Mollie Stones, it was the Sunday before Mayor Breed directed San Francisco to shelter in place. There weren’t any social distancing requirements, and the store was overrun by frantic shoppers. People bumped into each other in the aisles. The paper goods had been ransacked. The oat milk was nowhere to be found. We chose Mollie Stones because it’s the most expensive grocery store in San Francisco, and we didn’t think everyone would be stocking up there. But this is San Francisco, so we were wrong. I saw an elderly woman moving slowly through the store and started to hyperventilate. My partner wasn’t far, so I managed to find him and take a few deep breaths so I could avoid a panic attack.

So, you can understand why I wasn’t looking forward to my first solo grocery run. I chose the Costco in SOMA because so few people live south of Market, and it was the middle of the work week: maybe you can sneak away from Zoom meetings for a quick trip to Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, but Costco is an adventure, a commitment. Well, hundreds were as committed as I was. Probably to securing 30 rolls of toilet paper.

I pulled into the Costco parking garage at 10am as it was opening. No cars waiting to enter, which I took as a good sign. Note to self: there are no good signs in a pandemic. After I finally found a parking spot, I meandered around the lot only to find myself at the back of what felt like a makeshift never-ending airport security line, hastily created with caution tape and lazily monitored by a Costco employee in a face mask with megaphone. Every few minutes, he would remind us to stay six feet apart.

Despite being hopeful about the wait, I came prepared. My face was completely covered by a N95 mask, which I admit, I felt guilty about. Healthcare workers all over America needed PPE, and here I was, waiting in line at Costco wearing one piece of the ensemble. I had purchased a 10-pack after the last fire season and had broken the seal on the pack, making them impossible to donate. My mask makes me feel like a child or a cartoon character: it spans from my chin to the bottom of my eyelids. To complement it, I’m rocking ski gloves (plastic are almost impossible to come by), and have multiple episodes of The Daily downloaded on my phone. I take my spot at the back of the line, which has six or so switchbacks, and settle in to catch up with Michael Barbaro. 

I’ve been listening to The Daily for over a year now: almost everyday, either on my commute or while working out in the morning. But since quarantining, I’ve sadly kicked the habit. Without a gym or a ride to work, it doesn’t easily fit into my schedule. I miss Michael’s “and here’s what else you need to know today.”

The first episode up features a conversation with Paul Mozur, a technology reporter based in Asia — originally Shanghai. He, along with a handful of other American reporters, were unceremoniously banned from China and forced to leave the country, and he shared both his emotional reaction and the reasons why. 

I then chose “voices of the pandemic,” an episode cut into four parts: reporters talking to Americans impacted by the pandemic in Pittsburgh, Kansas City, New York and Seattle. Parents who are now homeschooling their screaming toddlers. A former waitress now living in her car trying to get a job at a grocery store, but unable to locate her birth certificate. A nurse who can no longer see her grandchildren because she’s treating COVID patients. I teared up listening to her recall the first night in the hospital when they confirmed two cases of COVID-19. She felt a sense of purpose and camaraderie with her coworkers, but realized almost immediately that it meant she wouldn’t be able to host her weekly sleepover with her grandchildren. She described in detail the room she decorated for them in her house, and how their beds will remain empty for weeks.

Three Daily episodes in, and I’m finally making progress in the Costco line, winding up the ramp, where red tape at our feet clearly marks the required 6-foot gap between you and the people in front and behind you. Once inside the massive warehouse, I chart a course to the paper goods and make it my mission to secure toilet paper and paper towels. A success on that front makes the wait feel worthwhile, and I start to check items off my list with purpose. Although Costco employees are strategically placed throughout the warehouse, every so often lifting a megaphone to remind shoppers to stay six feet apart, there are a few ways that make this Costco trip rather typical: I pack my shopping cart to the brim, spend far too much money, and rush out the door. More than anything, I can’t wait to take my mask off.