I wake from my slumber, feeling groggy and tired. I groan, turning away from the window. The sun is streaming in, filtering through the sheer white curtains. I try to return to my dreamless sleep, but it is too late. My body is already starting to wake up. I sit up, trying to remember what day it is. Recently, everything has been blurring together. Time is no longer relevant in the days of quarantine. It is a seamless continuation of one never-ending day. I look over at my alarm clock and silently scold myself. It is already the late afternoon. I have slept in too long. Again. Not the most pleasant way to start the day.
I get up and walk to the bathroom to begin my morning, or afternoon I should say, routine. There is a lull in my movements as I brush my teeth and wash my face. My actions are pre-programmed after two months of being at home. After I pat my face dry, I once again check if I have miraculously gotten abs overnight. Unsurprisingly, I do not see a six-pack protruding from my abdomen. I sigh and leave the room, ready to start my day.
After grabbing my phone from my room, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I heat the leftovers on the counter and bring it to the kitchen table. I sit down and eat my food in silence, alone. Maybe one day I will wake up early enough to eat breakfast, or even lunch with my parents. I aimlessly scroll through my phone, checking social media. No updates. What can I expect? Many of our lives have not changed since two months ago. I can’t help but feel disappointed by the lack of new information.
You see, despite the fact that I am an introvert, I am still actually quite social. I like to talk to people and catch up with them, and it was easy back on campus. I would see my friends every day, whether my roommates, my co-workers, or my student org members. However, being stuck in quarantine has slowly started to make me realize how starved I am for human contact, and I have been using social media as a quick-fix to my problem. Without any new updates, I feel restless.
I attempt to connect with my friends through Snapchat, FaceTime, or text as I finish my late lunch. I receive a few responses, but the conversation only lasts a few back-and-forth messages, once again leaving me feeling unsatisfied. No matter how many conversations I have, these short interactions never seem to be enough. This feels confusing in a way. Shouldn’t an introvert feel more at ease? More energetic? Why do I crave these interactions so much? Am I just that bored?
With all these mixed feelings, I am suddenly reminded of a simple conversation from many months ago.
“Please write down some action words on a slip of paper. We will be using these later for charades,” says my dance instructor. The class is all sitting on the floor, divided into two groups. I look at my side of the room. Some students are scribbling madly while others ponder for a moment. I write a few simple words down.
Running.
Swimming.
Jumping.
Curious about what others have written, I sift through the small pieces of paper tossed in a scattered pile between my group. The girl closest to me finishes writing her word and slides her paper towards the center.
Ennui.
I look up at her.
“A feeling of listlessness,” she says calmly. I stare back at the paper, wondering what that felt like.
I am brought back to the present. Ennui is the perfect term to describe what I feel. I am bored and unexcited. The monotonous routine I have developed during quarantine has given very little moments of exhilaration. It’s strange how such a seemingly insignificant memory can become so relevant almost half a year later. Life is funny that way, I guess.
I run a mental checklist of my work for the rest of the day. The only imminent task on my agenda is attending an hour-long Skype meeting with the Human Resources Specialist for my new job. Not too bad. I’ve had busier days. Trying to kill time before my call, I go to my room and lounge in a chair, scrolling through my social media again. With nothing better to do, the next few hours of my life are consumed by my phone. Soon enough, it is almost dinner time.
I spend some time standing around the kitchen and watching my parents prepare for dinner. However, before they can rope me into assisting with cooking, I notice that my call is about to start. I quickly leave the kitchen and head up to my room to grab my laptop. Normally, I take my work calls in the basement. I once read somewhere that it helps to manage your stress when you physically separate your place of work and your place of rest. It made sense to me. As I reach to grab my laptop, I think about how cold the basement is. It was going to be a long call. I’ll make an exception, just this once. Perhaps a change of scenery will add a little more excitement to my life. I settle down in the comfort of my room and await the call.
The meeting is quicker than I anticipate. Before I know it, I am saying goodbye to Nancy the HR Specialist. She is the first person I have talked to outside my family in a while. She was nice, informative. Maybe a little boring, but she was nice. Despite the gross amount of bland information that I just received, I notice that I am feeling more focused and energetic. It felt good to talk to new people. It felt refreshing, almost. At this point, I have to wonder if I am slowly becoming an extrovert.
I shake off the feeling and leave my room. I am almost by the stairs when I run into my dad. I inform him that the call is over, and he waves me to come down to the kitchen. There is a small plate of mushrooms and asparagus and a bowl of rice sitting on the counter. I stick both dishes into the microwave and set the timer. As the microwave starts to count down, I notice a slab of meat the size of my fist resting on the counter.
“I’ll prepare it for you,” my dad says. He seems excited.
“What is it?” I speculate. There is a glint in his eyes as he heats up the stove.
“Filet mignon.”
I raise my eyebrows. Since when did our household get so fancy with cooking? But I don’t question him. If he wants to make a fancy steak for dinner that is more than fine by me. I smile to myself, amused and touched by the way my dad finds so much joy in indulging in what some would consider one of the “finer things in life.” I hear the beeping of the microwave. I open the door, take out the vegetables, and carefully transfer it onto the rice. Meanwhile, the beef is sizzling loudly on the stovetop behind me. I start to eat my vegetables and rice, not bothering to sit down. My dad hands me a plate of fried garlic and sliced filet mignon. It looks and smells divine, and I dig in right away. My dad lingers in the kitchen, keeping me company. I feel awake in this moment, as if the grogginess from the morning had suddenly vanished.
Moments later, my mother joins my dad and me in the kitchen. She has just finished calling her sister on the phone, and she is smiling. I can tell that the conversation made her night. She looks over at the clock and tells me it is 10 p.m.. We exchange looks. Dad’s birthday is tomorrow, and he wanted a cake. It is already quite late in the evening to start baking a cake, but that won’t stop us. We usher my dad out of the kitchen, and my mother begins listing ingredients off her phone. I grab the different ingredients, struggling to keep up as she speeds through the recipe. We begin by cracking the eggs in a bowl, separating the yolk from the egg whites. Every now and then a piece of eggshell somehow finds its way into the egg whites. I am given the tedious task of scooping it out. Once that is done, I measure out the oil and pour it into a large mixing bowl. I weigh 100 grams of cake flour on a scale and start to sift it into the oil. Meanwhile, my mother is measuring the white vinegar on the side. I wrinkle my nose, reacting to the overpowering scent. It seems like a strange ingredient for a cake, but I am not a professional, so who am I to judge?
As we work together in harmony, I put on some music. Lately, I have had old crooner songs stuck in my head, so I queue a few Frank Sinatra songs and let my Spotify do the rest. Old jazz is blasting from the speakers, and suddenly the room is alive. I feel alive. I continue mixing the oil and flour combination, slowly incorporating the egg yolks and the milk. My mother pauses and watches me with a hint of amusement in her smile.
“It’s so strange,” she says, “it’s like you just woke up. Why do you have so much energy at this time of night?”
I shrug, “Maybe because this is midday for me? I don’t know.” I’m in a cheerful mood as I sway to the music, feeling as if I had just finished a cup of coffee. I keep whisking my batter, attempting to smooth out the awkward clumps coating the thick mixture. Once I am satisfied with my work, I push the bowl aside to start on the other half of the recipe. I pour the pungent vinegar and the eggshell-free egg whites into the KitchenAid mixer and turn the settings up to speed 6. My mother and I watch as the whisk powers through the runny liquid, slowly forming a ring of froth at the edge of the bowl. I lower the speed to add in sugar. I give it a couple of minutes to dissolve before I change the speed back. The sound of the whirring mutes my music, temporarily drowning out the sound of Paul Anka’s bright, smooth, voice. I stare at the mixture with curiosity as it slowly becomes whiter and frothier, the whisk cutting through the foam in alarmingly fast movements. Every minute or so I stop the mixer to check whether or not the “medium peaks” the recipe calls for have formed yet, my music cutting in and out each time I do so. After about 8 unsuccessful checks, the mixture is finally perfect.
Not to waste any more time, I quickly combine the egg white mixture with the batter and pour the final concoction into a cake pan. I cover the top with aluminum foil, and my mother excitedly sticks the pan into the oven. I tell Alexa to set a timer, and for the next 40 minutes I am in pure bliss listening to the sound of jazz and the smell of sweet cake fill the room. My dad comes wandering over to the kitchen right before midnight strikes. The cake is done baking at this point, and we remove it from the oven. My mom exclaims in awe and excitement when she sees it. It looks and smells absolutely incredible. We let the cake cool for a few minutes, while we figure out how to take it out of the pan. I watch as my dad tries to engineer a way to dislodge his cake without destroying it. He spends a couple minutes examining it before he is finally able to release the cake from the pan and set it on top of a metal cake round.
Midnight hits and my mom and I sing to my dad. She’s recording the moment from her phone, while I record the moment from mine. My dad is smiling and fidgeting, not really knowing what to do with himself during the song. Time slows down, and I pause for a moment to take it all in. My parents seem really happy in this moment. Their smiles warm my heart. The cake is served with a couple of strawberries and blueberries for embellishment, and the dessert is unbelievably good. It is light, fluffy, and just the right amount of sweetness. We talk and eat, laughing while sharing stories. The moment with my family is warm, and sweet, much like our freshly baked cake. I stare at the clock, the minute hand just slightly to the right of the 12, and smile to myself. What a wonderful way to start the day.
Kelly Chang || Rochester Hills, MI || May 13, 2020