One can never dream.

I had a dream that for the next six months, I was going to lead the hippie life. I was going to make hand sanitizer out of lemons and aloe vera and clean my house with vinegar. I was going to spend my days binge-watching season 1 of everything on Amazon Prime wearing the same mismatched T-shirt and yoga pants that I’d slept in. I was going to put my makeup, nail polish, hair dryer and flat iron on a high shelf. I was even considering growing dreadlocks.

Then my district informed me that starting Thursday, we were to draft a schedule, dress professionally and deliver our instruction online.

The dream is over.

The quarantine begins.

Last week I thought to myself, “This is the suckiest March in the history of suck-filled Marches. I’m entering my late forties. There’s not a break to be seen until spring. And we didn’t get a single snow day!”

My next more optimistic thought was, “Then again, we’ll get out on time for once. It’ll be the first year we don’t nearly host a Fourth of July picnic in the school cafeteria.”

Today I discovered spring break is coming early, and my school won’t open its doors “until further notice.”

You don’t enter your late forties without a full understanding of curve balls. But damn.