Due to the Novel Carona Virus masks are more popular than ever before.
Personally, the worst part of wearing masks is the fact that, despite the lower part of my face being covered for hours on end, my forehead has decided to break out. No one will know that my face isn’t covered in splotchy, mushy, protuberances fit to burst with the red hot intensity of Mount Doom from The Lord of The Rings series.
Every time I make eye contact with a stranger on the subway I want to scream, “I’m not a troll! I am not covered in these things! I have rights!!” I’m not even a teenager. If that were the case a) I would accept the monstrous pimple that has made camp on the right side of my forehead more graciously. b) I could make my parents pay for acne medication. And c) I would not be writing this because I would be on TikTok.
Acne aside, there are many other frustrations that come with wearing a mask. Feeling like a moron comes to mind, but besides that, you have the inability to recognize coworkers and in some cases your own family, the fact that you have to replace them at an almost iPhone level of turn over, and the constant reminder that there is a deadly airborne virus that we can do literally nothing about. Staring into someone’s mask covered face I can help but think of the cases that have gone up exponentially since March, I am of course talking about divorce here.
Capitalism has also ruined this whole mask thing. People have immediately tried to find the best way to turn a profit which of course wasn’t getting a vaccine out as soon as possible and opening up stores again, but instead making pandemic merch. I now see masks with Baby Yoda, Marvel’s Avengers, and, irony of ironies “The Virus Is A Hoax” on them.
People have also adapted too well to this mess. As I walk around my neighborhood in Queens, New York, I see dozens of outdoor dining areas erected as an altar of sacrifice to the god of capitalism, ZückerBoig. I admire the ingenuity of these folks, but at what point it an outdoor dining area just an indoor one on the street? I’ve seen structures that have three walls and windows, which is more than many apartments here have. (Har, har.)
I also see people who once would hawk baby turtles and churros now shouting about masks, hand sanitizer, and the occasional full-body hazmat suit. These fine people are making the best of an arguably worst situation. I admire their spirit but will never buy anything from them ever. WOULD YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?
Now you’re probably saying to yourself, “Tristan all this kvetching about these masks, are you a boomer?” To which I say, yes of course I am. I have for the last twenty-eight years been seventy-two. “Tristan, do you wear a mask?” Of course, I do! I’m a late-bloomer-boomer, not a dunderhead. “Tristan, what’re you doing later tonight? Do you want to meet up for drinks?” a) I’m flattered. b) I don’t drink. And c) I’M NOT LEAVING THE DING-DANG APARTMENT UNLESS I HAVE TO.
Here’s the thing about the masks thing. I know that they’re uncomfortable, sweaty, obnoxious, and remind us of our own mortality. How do I know? I’m wearing one right now. (No pants though.) But, much like most things in life, wearing a mask something that we hate but that we have to do. So please keep your mask on and please don’t look at my forehead.