In the scheme of things that is our planet's terrible predicament, this is not important. But it is the first message Crabby Old Lady encountered from the world outside her home on Tuesday morning and it deflated her for an hour.
It shouldn't have done that. But Crabby tires more easily now and it is harder to control her emotions. Mornings are the most difficult until the pain meds kick in. (Actually, Crabby suspects caffeine is easily as potent but she rolls with both to be able to get moving.)
So some random person emailed asking Crabby to promote on her blog an e-book he says he has written about being a hospice musician. Crabby would even receive a free copy, he wrote, plus he wants to publish one of Crabby's blog posts sometime “in the next six months” on his blog which does not, at this time, exist.
What? Not a word of acknowledgment about Crabby's current condition and that his personal money-making schemes might not be on her agenda? Not a word – not, “gee, sorry about your impending demise?”
After Crabby's one-sentence, impolite reply, he asked in response how he was supposed to know Crabby doesn't like to share.
The more Crabby thought about this, the more she realized it is of a piece with the kind of world we live in now since COVID took over. It has become an acceptable position in life to not care about anything beyond our individual selves.
The White House is a ghost town now that the infected president is breathing in all the rooms with no mask. Aides, household workers, the press are afraid to go near him.
Except for the daily count, our 200,000 plus coronavirus dead are barely ever mentioned. Millions of Americans mourn their loved ones, isolated and alone.
We cannot touch. We cannot hug. Certainly not kiss. Now they tell us that 12 feet is a more realistic safe distance than six feet from one another. And some ghoulish stranger wants Crabby Old Lady to sell his book for him while she is dying.
Crabby suspects it's getting close to time for her to go - before she loses all faith in humanity.