More than a month has passed since, beautifully unaware of the inevitable development of the events, I said to myself <I spent all my years there, what do you want it to be a temporary-forced-family-living together?> I use an escamotage because with the word 'quarantine' I still haven't familiarized ourselves enough. And in fact, the first days of imprisonment have slipped annoyingly well, almost as if the weight of a global pandemic could not cross the walls of our home. I was not frightened by the idea of having time available, which as a good Taurus I would have been able to commit, for example, by eating and sleeping, and I did not fear a motor stall so many (and in harsh conditions that it would not describe to describe) were the overflowing rooms they threw for years a desperate cry for help. Buried in the house? Who? We? <Exaggerated> continues to tell me my mom.
Days went by and, driven by the desire of DOVER, to use my time in a fruitful way (I have an ascendant in Virgo) I launched myself into the kitchen, I, the same one who, in front of a 'just enough', is in a state of agitation next to hospitalization. I baked uncooked cakes, biscuits that no one had the courage to eat, however unedible they were, and a very good tart which, however, made my sister. At least honesty must be recognized.
I soon realized that I just like to eat sweets and having no more cleaners on the list to tick, I decided that perhaps it was time to open the books, which I promptly closed too. But this is not the place to dry yourself with my proven theory of 'the more time you have, the less desire you will find'. The feeling of a world in stand-by paralyzed me and some civil procedure would not have helped me to put down the anguish that was slowly filling me.
After the maintenance tasks were over, the culinary experience rejected and the study option deliberately removed, I had very little else to do except my least favorite activity in the world: gymnastics. 40 minutes a day of agony mixed with sweat, a show that fortunately can only be enjoyed by those three wretches with whom I live. And it is absurd to think that the elaborate that I am going to show you below, the result of a clear mind that bangs and collides only with those three mentioned above, was conceived by pedaling, at level 1, on the exercise bike.
Mine is a very normal family, that is, the most distant from the false stereotype of Mulino Bianco. There has never been a common breakfast and I am very careful not to make it happen. The only moments of meeting coincide with lunch and dinner and it is there that we exchange personal daily reports: sometimes laughing, sometimes screaming at us. The evening is a sacred temple where company is strictly forbidden, we relegate ourselves to four different rooms and each enjoy the well-deserved isolation. We love so much.
With the start of the quarantine there were too many shutters to repaint, workouts to do and sweets to be churned out (to see more or less) to notice the impending tedium that would unleash our rods against each other. We were excited by the idea of joining the common time for things to which we previously dedicated a few handfuls of minutes: never before was such an overwhelming transport to draw up the shopping list, the competition blinded us for whole afternoons spent playing briscola and every ' what do you eat today? ' flocks of greasy and greasy requests.
But the weeks go by the same and we are certainly not superheroes. The enthusiasm of the novelty has crumbled before us and left four naked contrasting figures. Everything is an excuse for a free attack. It's his fault if it rained yesterday, it's your fault if the pasta is overcooked, it's my fault if my closet is disgusting. The balance is precarious and with every broken word I feel a punch coming overbearingly. The voices rise and fall for so little, showing us our being exhausted in black and white.
I am not afraid, what happens between these four walls is nothing more than a physiological need to purge the exhaustion accumulated in these forty days. I am far from painting our situation as a dramatic picture, because the worst that can happen is not to speak for a few hours, and frankly I don't understand who I have to ingratiate myself with for having more often than the aforementioned moments of blessed peace.
But the point, as long as it manages to define it well, is that the constant agitation of the center of gravity of this family only feeds discontent and ignites our most miserable and lowest characters. What I modestly theorized, while I was gasping while pedaling, is the law of balance: an infantile mechanism of shameless defense of the part that is succumbing, bent by the cries of the other; even if he is wrong, even if you have arrived on the battlefield at the end of the battle, always be on the side that is about to come out defeated. Prove the innocence of the accused under a press and let an aura of placid serenity fall again. To extreme evils, bargain.
It won't always work, or rather it doesn't always work in this family. The fact that 7 out of 10 the angry dog is me explains the disappointing result I have achieved and speaks volumes about the fake diplomacy I profess; but on the other hand, again, I am a finished and finished Taurus. So if it is true that 50% of the balance system is standing, the other 50% crashed in my face and, feeling a little Carrie, I could not help but ask myself: so the biggest problem is me? And have I finally found something to work on in order not to remain unproductive? What a quarantine effort.