I admit it, I was disappointed in the Trump announcement on November 15. However, it would be hard to top the apocalypse-level disappointment of the January, 2021 “inauguration“ of Mr. Biden, so disappointment is relative.
After a lengthy buildup worthy of a Barnum & Bailey ringmaster, President Trump announced he would be running for president. Ho-hum. Another feverishly hyped announcement that transformed into “that’s not exactly a surprise,” while the hoped-for announcements bit the collective dust and blew away.
Other than a craving for chocolate, and angst that felt sour for an hour or two, I suffered no ill effects. The diligent commentators would research and analyze, the meme masters would create their pithy nuggets of truth, and I would read both with only a semi-jaundiced eye.
January, 2023 is rapidly approaching, and with it, the two-year anniversary of the “inauguration,” and the three-year anniversary of the opening salvo of the Covid show. Shouldn’t I be aghast that these situations are dragging on? And yet, I’m somewhere between slightly disturbed and dismissive.
Any eagerness or heightened anticipation about big announcements or events happening soon, soon, is long gone. I feel little real engagement with alternative speculation, but observe what’s happening and talk about it with a few friends. Doris Day yodels “Que Sera, Sera” in my inner ear, and I mentally shrug and agree.
I’m not sure what my sense of relative disengagement portends. It’s not that I don’t care, per se…nor do I feel “above it all” in a congratulatory, egotistical fashion.
Perhaps I’m simply moving through life without feeling particularly dependent on what the powers that be (and the powers that will become) have up their sleeves. I’m not in such desperate straits that I agonize over when the Reval is going to drop. I’m unlikely to need a job that requires a Covid shot, if anyone is still doing that.
I feel pity for the masked youngsters I’ve noticed recently, and contemplate asking Becky at the pet store why she’s wearing a mask again. But the fate of those children, and Becky’s reason for smothering herself, are no more than pebbles dropped into my pond of disengagement.
The disengagement feels a lot like peace. It also feels like having given up. Perhaps those two are entwined in some alchemical fashion, “giving up” another way of saying “surrender,” with peace as the result.
Of course, it’s possible I’m fooling myself, mistaking crushing disappointment for what I’m labeling as neutrality. Regardless, I don’t feel like looking eagerly for the next big announcement or event. When they happen, I’ll be as happy as the next awake and aware soul (and probably a great deal happier than those who are unaware).
Meantime, I get on with getting on. Not with overwhelming joy, perhaps, but also without dread or sorrow pulling me down into gloomy depths. I think right now, this is what balance feels like for me.
I will welcome the joy of the positive announcements to come. And meantime, enjoy the quietly prosaic sense of peace I’ve been gifted.