My Pajamas

It’s 4:27 a.m. on a Saturday morning. If you follow these early morning purges at all lately, a quirky – but socially acceptable – pattern of non-sleeping is evident. Tolerated these days due to our governmental, virus-laden, punch-in-the-face complete stop of productivity and industry. I’m caught in it, as all of us are, and my self-employment mind cannot shut off as easily as the illustrious Governor of our Commonwealth thinks it can. “Put up with” because most of the obedient mask-covered constituents of our keystone state are trying our ever-loving best to push through a very difficult time. Agreed to since there seems to be no other choice; Have to, as I so patiently wait for four, yes FOUR, incomplete boxes in my financial life to be checked that should be checked by now.

You want to know my position right now? I’m pissed. Never mind who dropped the challenge in my lap, or under what circumstance it was placed. I’m not happy. The dishes were done by hand 45 minutes ago … that didn’t calm my nerves, so here I am. This, my friends, IS a socially acceptable position to take. And here’s why:

I don’t know who to believe anymore. It’s really that simple.

This shouldn’t surprise even the most astute among us, right? Politicians have been lying since the first T-Rex gnoshed on his first DoDo bird and the media flies around as if it has the virgin wings of Ouranos. Drop in a healthy, pardon me, unhealthy international dose of covid-19 in the middle of a dead bat-infested meat market in China and we have the beginnings of an “UN-believable” pandemic.

It’s to the point in my, now, sheltered life that if I not-so gracefully slide my left leg into the left pant of my pajamas … I’m not trusting it will reappear out the bottom. Yes, it’s that bad right now. My pajamas could be in a conspiratorial mode against me – plotting its next move should I decide to mistakenly forget to wash them, again, this week. #IsolationIssues. Assuming left is successful, right must then attempt insertion and then both must work together in order for me to have some kind of productive day. In my day pajamas. Doing basically nothing. Since none of my four boxes are checked.

This is a simple, but oh, so accurate analogy, of why I can’t sleep .. or believe anything anymore. Should I say, “anything”? Nah, that’s not fair to me. Let’s replace it with the phrase, “All the Windbag Words that Waste my time”, for the sake of this diary entry today. Yes. That’s perfect.

“I can’t believe all the windbag words that waste my time.”

This is phrased carefully, and purposefully. I did not say everything I hear is useless. The gift of discernment has to exercised, and it’s exhausting to say the least. Filtering out the bad information from the good is truly difficult. Just isn’t the same as pulling a pair of fresh, warm pajamas out of the dryer, holding them up close, and sucking in the sweet heavenly air through a cold nose.

Good Covid numbers vs bad.

Are the hospitals really full, or are we being dupped?
Are people actually dying from the virus as the primary cause, or are there serious underlying issues, but C-19 listed on the death certificate?
Is there a ventilator shortage, or not?
Why do the models keep changing so drastically and the experts get to skate when they, themselves, are the experts upon whom we rely?
Is the President really in charge, or not?
If this is such a pandemic, why are the seasonal flu yearly mortality numbers so much larger in year’s past?
Why do the numbers surrounding the success of Hydroxychloroquine stay basically hidden from coverage?
We have a really low number of cases in our county with, thankfully, no deaths. Why are our numbers so low?
Why no actual cases in North Korea or Yemen, as of April 7th? (ok, so this one, although true, is for some levity)

Facebook isn’t a good filter. I say that because it is from where the original proposition came. With over 1,500 friends, a survey would split them 30% reasonable all-in conservative, probably 40%-ish moderate, and the rest reasonable liberal to the edge… should a survey be done. I’ll never so it, obviously. Don’t want to. Love them all and really don’t care to know their political positions as I would hope mine isn’t of much importance to them, save one, the “proposer” . A few I’ve shared via private messenger or in a string of comments below a post. For the most part, however, kinda silent on the matter.

My theory about what the media and politicians say to us is pretty simple. They hear the same words coming out of their mouths time after time, so they believe what they hear … and expect us to as well. We have to discern and filter out the good from the bad, anymore. “Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth”, is a law of propaganda often attributed to the Nazi Joseph Goebbels. Among psychologists something like this known as the “illusion of truth” effect is so important to remember. I don’t know what the truth is about Covid-19. Hell, I can’t even decide what kind of mask to wear.

So, here’s what I want. First, I’m still pissed. Let’s not lose sight of that fact. When I click “Publish”, the couch awaits my tired soul for some hopeful rest.

Second, and more important, the media and politicians need to start putting their informational pajamas on together. First right, then left. Both sides need to work together – getting their stories straight. I kinda wish they’d quit trying to play the gotch-a game with us, stand up like real Americans, pull up their big-boy superhero pajamas and start walking forward for the benefit of all of us … not them.

My position will remain unchanged until they change, but my position in this chair must change because I’m weary from a lack of quality sleep. I have personal boxes to check with no hope of doing so this weekend. Oh, my pajamas are really comfortable and I probably won’t be taking them off at all today. Yeah, coronavirus! The whole thing right now is really unbelievable in so many ways. That you can take to the bank…

…Hey, when you’re there, could you ask about the status of my paperwork? That’s one of my unchecked boxes and I’m pretty sure they don’t want me to call again.


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