0207 PV deb adventures 4.jpg

Deborah Paul overlooking the Grand Canyon in May 1971. She reports it was the year she and her roommate drove from Chicago to Los Angeles in her 1968 Karmin Ghia convertible.

Day 57 in isolation funk. Are anyone else’s toenails dragging on the ground? 
 
Honestly. Along with the freedom to bounce around town, any sense of being groomed and coiffed has gone right out the window. 
 
Two inches of my hair has grown out Urban Pigeon gray. I was going to wait for my 70th birthday to go gray, but I reasoned it all out. If I colored my hair now, I’d have to go through the agonizing skunk look again, and right now the floppy mop has a good head start. 
 
Fortunately, my expert hairdresser is my next door neighbor. We suited up with gloves, masks and capes and snuck in a few quick streaks—under the governor’s bossy nose—to soften the line where it looks like my husband colored my hair with one of his hard-stubble paintbrushes. 
 
I can’t wait to see the shock on folks faces when they try to put the face of this gray-haired lady together with the formerly dyed appearance of a much younger boomer. 
 
We all have images of ourselves in our mind’s eye. Mine says I’m still 22.
 
But at this point, I’m so unkempt, I feel like I’ll never be cute, again. It’s gotten so bad, my once manicured nails are catching on the cotton weave of my baggy T-shirt. How did they get so raggedy when all I do is put dishes in the dishwasher, do three or four pieces of laundry a week, dust a little and take out the trash? 
 
Same for the piglets. I could cut my own finger and toe nails, but I like to help the small businesses in my area, even if I did end up with a toenail condition that will never go away. The doctor suggested the harmless fettle could be hidden quite nicely with a strong coat of polish. I know I’m not alone. 
 
But I’ve gotten lazy.
 
I miss my warm, oily leg massages with strong hands that know what they are doing. 
 
I don’t miss foundation make-up, though. I haven’t worn Covergirl for the 53 days, seven hours and three seconds. It feels good, but I swear my facial skin is sliding south. My cheeks used to be even with my nose. 
 
Oh, never mind what’s happening to the other cheeks. The stationary bike is a liar. 
 
Before the lockdown, I bought a bright yellow outfit to take to Texas with me for my annual Flying Tiger Line reunion which would have been this week. We were going to drive all over the state after the reunion to visit friends and relatives. 
 
Now, I’m grudgingly back on Weight Watcher points so that I can wear the cheerful attire to celebrate the eventual end of the planet’s social fast. Now that’s incentive. 
 
Needless to say, I’m ready for this to be over.
 
When I said “I do” almost 35 years ago, I never really thought I was saying “I do” to a commitment of looking at my spouse for days, weeks and months on end in limited quarters. Thank goodness he’s easy on the eyes. I pity him, though. 
 
I once read a fascinating book about Siamese twins who lived their whole lives together during a time when medical technology wasn’t advanced enough to successfully separate them. They seldom talked to each other because they experienced everything in their lives exactly the same. 
 
That’s how this isolation is in our house. 
 
“Look at the humming bird circling around us, dear.”
 
“Oh, you saw it.” 
 
“The dog just did a rolling stumble and almost caught that squirrel.” 
 
“Oh, you saw that, too?” 
 
And so goes the minutes of our lives until we are able to go our separate ways, then come together at the end of the day and share our adventures.
 
Gratefully, a friend called this morning with some good news. Great balls of fire!—our golf course is opening up and we already have our tee time back!
 
Yikes. I better go shave my legs.

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