Sharing Dip

It’s not my story.

R shared it with me on our somewhat-quarterly-ish catch up call.

We miss being direct colleagues. Though now we are transitioned into fun friends. 

Friends that check-in on each other somewhat-quarterly-ish.

We lamented a bit. Unusual for both of us. 

We lameneted the heaviness of these past few days, if not months.

Friends losing their loved ones, and the paralysis of not being able to comfort them in the time of CoronaVirus. 

We laughed at the regions of the United States where people don’t wear masks. And I don’t know why that was so insanely funny to us Geminis, but I guess giggles are hard to come by in the time of CoronaVirus.

We talked about the basic-privileged-person things we were missing in the time of CoronaVirus. 

A family-favorite restaurant near her sister had opened back up. And this is the sister with 3 kids and a 4th due in November.  

They’d missed that restaurant.

The food was so amazing there, but nothing as delicious and well-loved by them all as the dip. 

So when they received word that the restaurant had reopened, they rejoiced.  They planned their meal-trip, masks a-ready. 

Mom told her kids what they were going to experience. And they were gleeful over having their favorite sharing dip.  Their enthusiasm was palpable, even for me, some 3000 miles and 3 kids removed from the epicenter of this tale. 

They arrived at the restaurant, sat, and salivated over the menu, when their server began to take their order.

And no sooner had they placed their order for the dip, when the server let them know that, in the time of CoronaVirus, sharing dips weren’t being served.

And her story just stuck with me all day, and seemed to aptly describe the