Furlough journal, day 3; missing the daily video calls

In today’s journal entry, furloughed education reporter Linda Borg describes a day spent missing colleagues and missing out on stories she would have liked to have covered.

By Linda Borg

It’s Day 3 of my weeklong furlough and the headlines keep coming at me:

“Governor announces phased reopening of colleges.”

“Court rules Detroit students have a right to an education.”

“Commissioner Infante-Green and the governor answer questions from the Latino community.”

However, I can’t make a phone call about anything work-related, not even open an email.

I am dead in the water during one of the biggest news stories on my beat and it feels…weird?

I read the Boston Globe this morning, Yup, got beat on that story about the school budget.

I scan Twitter.

“Survey estimates 20 percent decline in college enrollments.”

I scribble the headline down, thinking, “O.K. I can jump on that next week.”

Yeah, right.

It’s Day 3 of my weeklong furlough and the headlines keep coming at me. However, I can’t make a phone call about anything work-related, not even open an email.

Everything about my life feels off-kilter.

I’m now waking up so early that my dog eats breakfast and goes back to bed. He used to be the morning person in this household.

I feel the pressure of deadlines but there aren’t any.

I no longer get dressed for my morning Google meetings with the coronavirus team. There are none for me this week.

I miss them, the faces of colleagues with new beards, the sound of kids crying in the background.

I also live alone, so some days, the morning video meetings have been my only human contact, in all of its grainy imperfection.

I miss them, the faces of colleagues with new beards, the sound of kids crying in the background. The morning video meetings have been my only human contact, in all of its grainy imperfection.

These days, I’m eating two breakfasts a day (but no sweets), and my waistline is beginning to thicken.

By 8:30 a.m., the time I usually finish this column, the day stretches ahead of me like a blank canvas.

I tell myself, “No binging on “Sweet Little Lies” during the day.”

Then I compromise. “O.K. only one episode before dinner.”

Puzzles bore me. Cooking anything beyond pasta confounds me. I don’t own a needle and thread, much less knitting needles.

The weather hasn’t helped. We’re having March in April. One cold, drizzly day follows another, but I’m so twitchy I’ve mowed my lawn twice in four days.

When the sun peaks out, I walk, but all of my favorite parks are closed. Chase Farm. Colt State Park. The beaches in Narragansett.

I walk around my neighborhood instead, which is hardly scenic.

I tell myself, “No binging on “Sweet Little Lies” during the day.” Then I compromise. “O.K. only one episode before dinner.”

Last night, I met a friend, a former teacher, in front of the Coffee Depot.

The main street, normally busy with commuter traffic and customers grabbing their last latte of the day, is empty.

I wave her over. She hands me a shopping bag warm from the chicken pot pie inside. I hand her a jar of homemade honey (not mine). We exchange a few words about how bored we are, bump elbows and leave.

I drive home and eat dinner in front of the evening news. The brown rice is soupy, the beans overcooked. Half-way through the news, I turn it off and click on HBO.

Madeline’s husband found out she cheated on him. Celeste’s husband is in jail for securities fraud. Ziggy learns who his real father is.

I settle into the couch, my novel, “Americanah,” tossed aside.

Previously:
Furlough journal, day 2; losing the newsroom
Furlough journal, day one; staring at the screen