“You’re not in line.”

I looked up from my phone at the checkout of the local grocery store. An overloaded shopping cart took forever to be emptied, bagged and paid for. Waiting, I had lost myself in Instagram worlds. To my right, behind the sullen lady who addressed me, ten people in line looked at me.

Shopper number three gestured to go before them. Like me they had three items in their basket while everybody around us pushed carts fuller than on Thanksgiving. A couple guys played bumper carts and chuckled while elbow bumping their hellos.

“No more hugs.”

The virus! I had been writing all day ignoring the news. The lengthy lines were a reaction to the president, who had just locked the gates to Europe.

Me too. I need survival stuff too. “Disinfecting wipes?” The manager chuckled. “Try baby wipes.” Would that clean my dog’s feet after a stroll on virus-sullied streets? I spotted one bag of organic rice. The oat meal shelves were empty; in fact many shelves were. From my book’s medieval wonderland, I had morphed into a scene of a dystopian future. A woman ripped open a newly arrived container before the store staff could. With wind mill arms she moved dozens of single toilet paper roles into her cart.

I don’t buy into panic! I’m better than her. Two other stores and a couple hundred bucks later I felt like after the recent LA earth quake but the culprit was the vague probability of a virus near me. I had left my freely chosen writer’s sanctuary and came back a single woman forced into scary isolation in a one-bedroom apartment. Is that how woke feels? Just a week ago I had shopped for a “thrifted chic challenge” on Instagram, pulling pre-loved clothes over my face, oblivious about the virus’ 4-6 hours lifespan on fabrics. I had pushed my worries aside just two days ago visiting a 40 plus guest dinner with Maye Musk. We did a photo shoot. We hugged.

OMG, we hugged?

I wasn’t afraid until this morning watching a man balancing a rack of lamb on ten packs of sausages on his mountain of groceries.

“Less is more,” it screamed in me. How can you munch meat when the virus started in a bloody meat market? Yes, I can be righteous. Yes, I can be angry.

Having supplies for two humble months calmed my stomach, not my feelings or my mind. I searched for the power of knowledge, sifting through fear-mongering and facts. Are there verifiable facts? And if, are they shared with the public on Google, those people called expendable in disaster movies? That the government only informs us of the most rudimentary hit me hard. I hate feeling powerless.

“Cancel 2020 altogether,” LeBron posted on Twitter.

2020 promised us clear vision, a paradise of clarity. We received surreal fires, floods and tornadoes painted on huge not-to-miss panels. We rubbed our eyes and turned our compassion into donations. “The show must go on,” pacified the cliche prone ego any remaining upset. We followed the satisfying simplicity of life coaches’ advice, “don’t buy into the negative.” Avoidance does not stop suffering. Me-me-me with a pinch of compassion doesn’t cut it.

If you were the planet, wouldn’t you be angry with its people? She yelled for attention, “I am good enough, why don’t you love me?” Like a screenwriter she gave us increasingly tough challenges, hoping that we become heroines/heroes and change so we would see the goal.

Many of us stayed in three monkey mode; we did not want to listen to the stories of farm animal abuse. Keeping our mouth shut about so called traditions turned beaches red with blood of dolphins. Looking away when slaughterers rip fur off living dogs and cats allows them to be caught and tortured. We did not sufficiently fight against pipelines, missed to applaud the Animal Liberation Front or stop all universities from testing on animals. Most of us are lame. Me included.I was advised that I will lose followers on IG if I show that I am angry when Jlo sports her furs, that I am disgusted by politics being ruled by big industry and hate Zoos as animal prisons. I am afraid to call to arms even when they are made of fierce love. We are responsible for the mess we’re in because we didn’t do enough to stop it.

 “Transform 2020 altogether,” I tweeted to LeBron.

The virus is 2020s clarity sidekick. It forces us from outside distractions to the inside of our homes and not just into the physical brick and mortar places. It asks us to shift our focus from outside agendas to inside values; our chance to find our magnifying glasses in the mess. Meditate, journal, draw; let’s sit in our isolation, let the stories in our heads drift away so our souls can speak. Were we helping or ignoring the planet, filling our coffers or feeding our souls?

The virus says NO, no more of this. Enough is enough. No is not just a sentence but an entire book waiting for us.

We are not powerless. We can stop cruelty and destruction with every day decisions as woke shoppers, as rebels with a cause of compassionate change. The world is closed for spiritual maintenance so we can open our hearts and visualize the action we need to take.

When we feed our souls, we don’t need stuff to fill our emotional holes.

Can we

• Go vegan? Vegetarian?

• Shop less?

• Avoid companies that don’t care for the planet?

• Don’t buy mass-produced products and put our money where our hearts and minds are?

• Be creative and shop our closets?

• Come up with fresh ideas and actions to help turn our destructive path around?

• Actively support organizations working on environmental issues?

• Vote with your heart for the person who will support the survival of the planet?

• Initiate talks and actions in your women groups to create real, tangible change?

• Demand to close wet markets and the mass produced meat industry for good

• Demand Billionaires to invest in worldwide education?

• Share our oatmeal with our neighbors should shortage hit?

“You’re not in line.”

Don’t be. Be a force for change. In your unique, personal way.

I’m a writer who feeds off outfits; they are my creative expression, my muse telling me stories. My promise; I won’t shop, not even online. I trust my inner wardrobe stylist to reinvent the stuff I have. There’s this one t-shirt though that says angel. Can I have that?

Let’s transform Covid-19 into Cupid-20.