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Covidcado Toast

I build software as a service for a living. I’ve been doing that remotely for several years. I socialize when invited by others, and am content to decline half the time. I enjoy being with my kids, so go ahead and send them home for a few weeks.

A sense of pride bubbles up as I consider my calm amidst the pandemic surrounding me. Why is everyone freaking out?

It turns out I operate from a position of extreme privilege. The recommendation of social distancing isn’t taxing because it doesn’t require me to change much. It doesn’t threaten my income or put me on alert of unemployment. It’s been my ideal week. The biggest inconvenience so far is getting take out instead of dining in to support some local restaurants. And when I pull into the garage I’ve got my choice of a Crate & Barrel dining room table or West Elm couch on which to eat that take out.

It stings. Realizing I’m disconnected from the troubles my neighbors are feeling. From the worries my city is carrying. I’m out of touch, and that’s not okay.

So I’m resolved to not have the hottest take. To not tell anyone how they should respond. To shut up. And to listen.

How can I help?