I’ve been trying to do my part when venturing out by wearing a surgical mask.
I’m not doing very well I’ll admit, wearing it more like a blue collar around my neck.
The discomfort, feeling as if you’re smothering, is reason enough never to go into the medical field.
Of course where would we be then, my shallowness making an unattractive appearance.
It’s now a rule in New York, you must wear one when out, if you’re not 6 feet apart.
So the team player that I am makes another attempt fastening it on, wondering if I really need to go out after all, cluing you in to how spoiled you are.
Oh fuck it, I say, as I leave it swaying, rubbing against my hoodie as I walk. I do my best to avoid those coming towards me with masks of their own, some still without, courtesy being key, patience a close second.
I needed an airing after being in from 7 a.m. till 4, walking boldly down Park ready to do battle with anyone who minds my faux masked face, my own patience wearing thin.
Then I see a little boy, 5 or 6, happily walking with his mom who, short of Saran Wrap, is protected to the hilt.
“Hey lady,” he says, “you know who I am?”
“No, who?” I ask, always stopping for a kid.
“I’m Spider Man.”
And indeed he was, wearing the mask I gather he wore on Halloween.
Kids, the best, like a breath of fresh air.