By Barbara Bonn

Splat. That’s the sound of the Sunday New York Times landing on the floor outside my apartment door. In normal times, I would reach my bathrobed arm out the door, haul in the paper and spread it out on the table, next to my coffee and a slice of Kirsch Bakery’s seeded sourdough bread, lightly toasted and well-buttered. Sunday morning bliss.

These, as we are all too aware, are not normal times. This is the era of Social Distancing. If you had asked me the definition of social distancing back around Christmas, I would have guessed that it referred to the prevailing habit of communicating with other human beings primarily via iPhones and Androids.  Substituting screen-to-screen for face-to-face.

But no. Now, with Covid-19 upon us, it means real physical distance, which can be accomplished the hard way, by trying to keep six feet between you and the guy with the cough coming toward you on CPW, or the toddler who waves its beslobbered lollipop in your face as you wait in line to enter Trader Joe’s. Or you can achieve it the prescribed way, by just staying at home – full time for those who are experiencing fever and coughing, somewhat more flexibly for the worried well and the most vulnerable.

After too many recent trips on the B train and too much unwise mingling in the cafes of Columbus Avenue, I woke up and stopped denying the cold hard fact that I am exactly what the pundits mean when they use the phrase “vulnerable older people with underlying conditions.” As penance, punishment and precaution, I am Social Distancing for a while. Isolating at home for the most part, except for an early morning walk and maybe a quick trip to the grocery for a quart of milk.

I have to confess that I am almost too comfortable self-sequestering. I work from home, so that part is business as usual. Without guests, without going to the movies or concerts or restaurants, and with most appointments cancelled, there is time to tackle projects that have been on hold for umpty months – books I’ve been meaning to read, half-finished knitting projects, little home improvements that I’ve been putting off, new recipes (homemade pad Thai is yummy!), phone calls to distant friends and families. Oh, and making my own hand sanitizer, since there’s none to be had in the stores. (Google the recipe: it’s just alcohol, aloe and an optional drop of your favorite essential oil.)  Washing the windows that look onto my terrace? Maybe. Nah.

The downside of this voluntary isolation is the anxiety that accompanies everything about this latter-day plague. Let’s, for instance, go back to that Sunday Times: where had it been before it reached my door; who handled it? How about the carpet in the hall outside my door? It was cleaned yesterday but is it clean today? Do I wash my hands after picking up the paper and before picking up my toast? Do I wash them again after I turn a page? I know I’m not supposed to touch my face but it’s hard not to when Spring allergies tickle my nose and eyes. If I scratch my cheek, must I then wash my face? And throw the washcloth into the laundry? Madness.

The thing is, we don’t know enough about this new virus to be secure about how to prevent it from catching us. Until we have adequate testing for all who need it, the Covid-19 world is full of ifs and maybes. If I go down to the lobby to get my mail, and if I press the elevator button with my knuckle or a tissue, I’m okay, right? But it’s a small elevator, just big enough for four people and one stroller. Will the lady who pets every dog on the street try to squeeze in with Sniffles, her own over-friendly bull terrier? Are we all trading virus particles simply by going down to street level?  And is the mail itself, sitting in the cubby with my apartment number, as innocent as it looks? Who has sneezed on it? Do I wash my hands before or after reading it? Let us not even speak of the packages from the UPS truck, or the dangers that may be lurking in the laundry room. Isolation breeds questions, and unanswered questions breed anxiety bordering on paranoia.

My plan for this next week is to stay at home, but to stay sane. To nest in peace as much as possible. To ignore the freakish anti-virus advice proliferating on the Internet. (No, you cannot kill Covid-19 viruses by drinking water to wash them down to where they will be zapped by stomach acid; nor will elderberry syrup do the job.) But I will take advantage of other online offerings.

The Met Museum is shuttered but I can tour an unfamiliar new museum online.  The Met Opera is dark, but it’s streaming a different opera every night at 7:30 on its Web site. Check www.metopera.org for the schedule.

And I will continue to be inspired by my dear friends in Italy, who are in complete and involuntary lockdown, with no stores, bars or restaurants open except for food markets and pharmacies.  They are singing in unison from their windows and balconies in defiance of the pandemic.

Meanwhile, their children are bombarding cities with artwork declaring “Andrá Tutto Bene” – All Will Be Well.

I believe that all will be well. Eventually. The big unknown is when. Until then, be safe, be well and keep your distance.