Were you better off when you were worse off? Okay, it’s a provocation (it always says so, when you want to get your hands on, right?) But we challenge anyone of you who are veterans of the lockdown that you now sip a Spritz on the Navigli with the straw tucked under the mask (if the you have) to not have a little rogue nostalgia for the two months of lockdown. On the empty streets that who like us has always gone to work even when 10 thousand people per day passed through without even looking at the traffic lights, at worst an ambulance passed and to be hit was like the zero kilometer of the rescue.
For the press conferences at 6 pm, an example of Bulgarian TV from the seventies, a fixed room and characters that already seemed like a caricature, no dramaturgical times and many defects in pronunciation, and then numbers numbers numbers. Stuff to shoot himself, but for us it was like the final episode of the House of Card.
For sign language interpreters, promoted on the field to sex symbols accessible in their silent austerity, because every era has the erotic dreams it deserves.
For Mameli sung loudly in the afternoon on the balconies, transformed into veranda porches. Let us cohort, we are ready to die (but only those over 85, please).
For “it will be all right”. Safe sure?
For virologists, epidemiologists, pulmonologists. In short, they.
For the mortality index, the R0, the number of tampons, which have transformed us into many Pythagoras, us who until yesterday the word theorem meant the song by Ferradini, that “take a woman, treat her badly”.
For penne rigate, which hold the sauce and you know how important it is to hold the sauce during a pandemic, because nothing goes smoothly, let alone the pasta.
For the self-certifications, print one version after another as if they were new versions of the iPhone (do you have the new one?) That we will find in the pockets of the coats in the coming years.
For Zoom and the aperitifs transformed into Google boards.
For yoga classes, pilates, for planks made following a tutorial, for sweat to soak the parquet and carpet that they had never seen.
For singles who envied couples and couples who envied singles.
For dogs “pissed” five times a day by owners who are scornful of the real urinary needs of the best friend of the quarantined.
For expenses transformed into flash mobs, all lined up well spaced in front of the Esselunga, in one hand the shopping list compiled by his wife, in the other the glove.
For our feeling veterans since March 12, when we were streaming our vicissitudes all the same, Robinson Crusoe beached on the sofa.
For the comfortable feeling of being able to postpone every decision, save one: striped pens or smooth pens?
No, it wasn’t better when it was worse. But every worst has its best and every best has its worst, and if we regret the iron curtain and the black and white news, let alone “thank you for the question”.