I would like to preface this post with a quick reminder: My family is healthy. We are employed. We are all very, very blessed to be so, and I am grateful.
But yet there must be a snark that comes forth, ok? It’s like the sunrise.
So, I made my own mask. I did so because I was suckered in by all those Youtube tutorials that used words like “Simple!” and “Easy” and “A blind squirrel with no arms could do this even though his tiny little squirrel legs are too short to reach the pedal on the sewing machine!”
I have this thing that I do when it comes to life: I always assume.
I mean… I assumed that I can bake awesome birthday cakes. Because I am a mom and also I am awesome, right? Should be no problem. Thus, the poo cupcakes.
I assumed that I could make homemade sourdough bread. We still don’t speak about what the starter ended up looking like. I mean it. We just don’t talk about it.
So, I assumed, of course, that I could make a face mask. I mean.. how hard could it be?
In fact, that is kind of my motto in life, for all the things:
Hmmm. I think I’ll get married to an engineer who likes reading instruction manuals for fun and wears a phone on his belt.* I mean… how hard could it be?
How about I have two boys, 18 months apart almost to the day? Really… how hard could it be?
Also, I think I’ll stop drinking right around that same time because, honestly, HOW HARD COULD IT BE? (Ok, actually I didn’t go into the whole recovery thing with any assumptions, but also I had NO idea how amazingly tough/awesome/mind-crunching/soul-leavening it would all be so let’s just leave it at that).
So, I made the mask. And my assumptions, yet again, formed a clique and started pointing and laughing at me.
The mask is… really interesting. I do wear it. But I do so with a lot of inward cringing. I feel all awkward and like everyone is STARING. It takes me right back to that time when I was eleven and my dad took me to Sears and he knocked over an entire rack of bicycles and then loudly BLAMED IT ON ME. Somehow that mask has me working through some childhood trauma and that’s… good? I guess? Not really. No one needs to work through trauma while they’re buying chicken thighs.
I’m just.. I don’t like my mask. It’s not a cute print or color (it was a blue pillow case) and it’s really… how can I put this…
It’s huge, ya’ll. It’s the size of a toaster oven. It’s like a huge blue toaster oven ate my face.
I guess one bonus could be that it’s so large that maybe people can’t recognize me? But as I am usually always wearing a space kitty shirt and I am the only one in the four state area with hair my color (#silverfox) that’s not often.
Also, it makes for super awkward interactions like this:
Scott (actual owner of aptly named Scott’s Grocery Store): Hi Dana! I recognize you even though there’s a large blue toaster oven strapped to your face. How are you?
Me: *muffled* Smerghgid! Phiffner doonttimurg.
Me only louder: SMERGHID! PHIFFNER DOONTTIMURG! SMERG?
Me: *sigh* FLLOROWW?
Scott: Aisle five.
So, I get to be introverted in it, but louder.
The moisture from talking loudly behind a mask rises up to coat in my glasses so now not only do I have a toaster oven on my face but I’m blind and I just really want to itch my nose which we all know is illegal now. I have a strong desire to rip that sucker off my face and wipe all the seepage off with it, but as I don’t like to kill other people, I don’t.
Simmer down. And I know some of you are not into the mask thing. Don’t email me. I like Dr. Fauci plus I have followed rules all my life and I’m not going to rock any covid boats, people. It’s my thing.
Besides… maybe… Maybe I LIKE having a toaster oven on my face, huh? Maybe it’s COOL.
Nope. Not even a little bit. But let’s assume it is.
Carry on, troops. We will get though this.
*He does not wear a phone on his belt anymore. I needed you to know this because it’s worse than a toaster oven on the face. We all know this.
And no, I am not going to post a picture of the toaster oven/mask. In lieu of that, here is a picture of Rey, The Cherub Dog wearing her own mask: