I Tried to Solve Quarantine Loneliness With Hobbies. It Didn't Work.
Hydroponic gardening is hard.
Below are your search results. You can also try a Basic Search.
Hydroponic gardening is hard.
For as long as I can remember, there’s been a set path for me to follow. Plans were made 48 months in advance, detailing when to start what. From ACT practice tests to internships to college tours, everything was set. Life was a train ride, and there was always a destination.
Dear Reader,
I spend most of my time alone. My hours of daylight have been scattered across modernist novels, SEPTA rides to Trader Joe’s, and dozens of cortados from the café two blocks away. It took me several years to realize this was ideal—to realize how much comfort I find away from the gaze of others.
I have spent far too much of the pandemic on my phone.
As a sophomore, coming back to campus this fall after one semester of on–campus lockdown introduced me to a Penn I had never seen before. As I walked down Locust and saw fliers for comedy show performances, debates, and recitals, it felt like I was experiencing college for the first time.
I remember a time during high school when I sat in my room doing work at my table. My mother walked in, and we talked for around 15 to 20 minutes. Except, she wasn't actually there. When I looked carefully enough, I realized that I was hallucinating because I hadn't slept for almost two entire days.
I’ve been fond of Adam Sandler ever since I was a kid. It started with his 2008 film, Bedtime Stories, a feel–good movie featuring a hotel repairman who tells his niece and nephew bedtime stories that spontaneously come true. His works aren’t masterpieces, and his sense of humor can be grating at times, but his genuine nature makes me root for him and his characters. So, when whispers spread that Sandler was shooting a Netflix sports drama called Hustle at the Palestra, I was determined to meet him.
Content warning: The following text describes an instance of assault, which can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
When I was a kid, I watched my dad drink coffee every day before work. He’d turn on the Keurig and fill the little side compartment up with water. Steaming black coffee would dribble out of the machine.
Meals were never a big deal at my house. While many families consider mealtimes a way to bond, during my childhood, my parents and I mostly rummaged through the kitchen to see what we could find and ate separately. It wasn’t that we didn’t enjoy food at all, or that we didn’t spend enough time together as a family. Making home cooked meals together was just never a priority.
While I was stuck inside, I used cooking to quite literally spice up my life. When we half–returned to campus in the spring, I used my bedroom desk as storage space and took Zoom classes from my dining table, where I could use three hours of class time to simultaneously prepare dinner. Don’t tell my professors I said this, but the symphony of cooking quickly took precedence over the voices exiting my laptop speaker. I was far more attuned to the gentle rumbling of water boiling on the stove, the sizzling of onions and garlic in an adjacent pan, and the sharp sound of my knife colliding with the chopping board at each cut—though the chopping wasn’t particularly rhythmic given my lack of proper knife skills. By the time I heard the routine chorus of thank yous and goodbyes, I was ready to snap my laptop shut and slide it off the table, a hot plate of food taking its place.
Content warning: The following text describes instances of abuse, which can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
I’ve spent a total of five weeks in mandated hotel quarantine while traveling to my home in Hong Kong: two weeks last December and three weeks this past spring. I’ve been deplaned twice—both times due to COVID–19 test–related issues but never because of a positive test result. The first time, I needed a negative COVID–19 test within 72 hours of leaving the United States—my test was dated 72 hours and 20 minutes. On the second occasion, it was because the COVID–19 Testing Center at Jefferson Airport failed to provide me with a “Certificate of Accreditation," a piece of paper that said the testing lab had government approval. It didn’t matter that I was tested at the airport center that was exclusively intended for travelers. It was also of little consequence that I was fully vaccinated.
Ever since I was a little girl, I yearned to be pretty.
It’s funny, sometimes I find I’m more stressed during the summer than during the school year. School–year–Eva would be appalled to hear me say that. “Girl, what are you talking about,” she’d laugh. “We are drowning during the year trying to balance classes, clubs, work, social life, and mental and physical health. During the summer, we’re free.” Ironically, it’s this freedom that, after a few weeks of post–finals bliss, often introduces a new form of anxiety, different from the one that comes with the typical academic and social pressures of the school year.
What songs exist at the core of your identity? I’m not talking about your favorite music, your most played album, or your yearly Spotify Wrapped. Maybe this song is your parents’ favorite, so you heard it growing up. You may not know every lyric and be able to sing along; it’s about feeling every chord change and melody in your body, or experiencing the music somewhere deeper than in your conscious mind. These aren’t the songs that form the soundtrack of your most formative memories—they’re the songs that become memories themselves. You might not even be able to name one off the top of your head, since they’re not the songs you remember unprompted, but the feeling of auditory deja vu is unmistakable.
During my first few weeks at a local ReStore of my state’s Habitat for Humanity branch, I worked in what felt like my own bubble of silence. On my first day at work, I felt like a tornado wound up inside a glass case. I barely said more than three words, my nerves giving way to an anxiety–induced muteness that became difficult to break.
Content warning: The following text describes rape and sexual assault, which can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
Content warning: This piece contains references to gun violence, death, murder, police brutality, and hate crimes that can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
Get 34th Street's newsletter, The Toast, delivered to your inbox every Friday morning.
Newsletters