Early in the pandemic, my brother gave me some advice: having something to look forward to is crucial, but spare yourself the disappointment of pinning it to a day. “Just say someday,” he said. I took his advice. Someday, I’d think, picturing myself on the pool deck of a far-flung hotel, or window-shopping for a summer frock for a barbecue.
It worked. Imagining is a pleasure in its own right, and especially fun when unmoored from time and, therefore, reality. (See other “someday” fantasies: starting a new legal weed business with Dot from EastEnders called Pot Cotton; being on time for work every day.)
But when a website started circulating a timer counting down to various stages of easing – nine days until park hangouts with friends; 58 until pub drinks; 93 until it’s basically over – my imaginings became more intense. Now I could sense it all: the taste of rosé in cheap plastic cups, the burnt smell of skewers left unsupervised.
Then came dread, a pre-emptive feeling of loss that it would not happen or, worse, that it would not happen the way I wanted; that the reality would be getting stuck in lengthy toilet queues; that those optimistic sandals would be caked in mud. Perhaps it had been so long since a plan felt viable that I didn’t know how to do it any more. I stopped daydreaming about a post-lockdown life – and what a boring few days that was.
The truth is, all life’s thrills come with a risk of loss – you just have to accept that. Better to dream and let it crumble in front of you than never to have dreamed at all. So I will embrace my hopes for the future and not hold back. Anticipation is half the fun and often better than the reality. I, for one, am ready to invest in hope. I’d better buy that dress.
