My Covid Escapades

The Pandemic I Low-Key Miss

COVID was actually one of my favorite times—don't cancel me for saying it. People got truly unhinged though.

I was all set for Amsterdam with friends—packed, hyped, ready to say "pandemic, schmandemic" in the city of sin. I had accommodations lined up and everything. Literally day-of, with bags by the door, the universe said "NOPE" and all flights out of the country were canceled. Indefinitely. That's when shit got real.

A good friend I'd been having a kid playdate with that day and I exchanged one look and simultaneously thought: "APOCALYPSE SHOPPING SPREE!" Problem was, what exactly constitutes apocalypse supplies? I had no idea. Adding to my end-times unpreparedness, I was rolling with a bicycle since my ex-husband took the Land Rover. I wasn't financially ready to juggle my mortgage and a car payment, so I embraced the two-wheel life at the time.

So there I am, cycling to Safeway like I'm in some dystopian movie, and holy shit—it was DEFCON 1 inside. Lines wrapped around the store, people pushing multiple carts like they were prepping for nuclear winter. One dude had THREE CARTS. THREE! Sir, where are you storing 87 rolls of toilet paper in your San Francisco apartment?

Meanwhile, I'm the reasonable one with a single cart thinking, "The world isn't actually ending, and my ass doesn't need that much wiping." I shopped like a normal person, went home, and boom—next day, full lockdown.

San Francisco went into curfew mode, which is heaven if you're an introvert but absolute HELL for someone like me. After a few weeks of this "new normal" (hot tip: never trust anything called a "new normal"), I was losing my damn mind.

Kids home 24/7? Check. And becoming a parent, I'd already made a huge miscalculation.

No drinks with friends? Check.

No live music? Check.

Would rather lick a subway pole than continue living this way? DOUBLE CHECK.

Thank God my pilot boyfriend wasn't around—being trapped with him would've had me fashioning bedsheets into a noose.

During one of my increasingly desperate dog walks (poor thing's paws were raw because I needed OUTSIDE TIME), I hiked up to Buena Vista Park. After rewarding myself with some summit drinks, I met this German woman named Anika who was going through a divorce. We clicked immediately and made the only reasonable pandemic decision: let's drink together DAILY.

By day three of our friendship, she'd told me her whole life story—Burning Man wedding, messy divorce, the works. Having finalized my own divorce three years prior, I'd somehow become the unofficial shepherd for women going through divorces. I had this natural ability to guide the newly single through their emotional wilderness. So I did what any rational divorce sherpa would do: "Hey, you should move into my guest room with Hodor (the mini Aussie and my dog Bruno became best friends) while you get your life back? Living with your soon-to-be ex is rough." Two days later, "Ani" (as we called her) was my new roommate, and it was GLORIOUS.

A couple weeks into our platonic marriage, my friend Merle called from Tahoe inviting us up. Ani bailed last minute due to ex-husband drama, and when I called Merle to possibly cancel, he hit me with: "I literally ditched my friends in Utah for you, so get your ass up here." Fair enough.

That night was classic Megan-and-Merle shenanigans—drinking, giggling, playing music, and breaking every COVID protocol while laughing about it. By 12:31 AM (yes, specific time noted), Merle turns to me with zero chill: "Listen, if you're gonna sleep in my bed tonight, you're gonna GET IT."

I loved how cool and calm he was when delivering this ultimatum—like he could have been saying "Pass me the salt" while also saying "I'm going to suck on your nipple." His directness was both shocking and incredibly hot.

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