Every week after I arrived in Argentina in March for a collection of journey writing assignments, all the nation went into lockdown. The airport in Buenos Aires closed. Entire nations had been shutting down. Getting residence appeared like a pipe dream when even venturing farther than the native grocery retailer was primarily unlawful. The world was unrecognizable.
As a author with a concentrate on journey, my career was additionally on hearth. From one second to the subsequent, a number of assignments had been canceled, and several other earnings sources evaporated. Then there was the delicate tragedy of being sequestered a stone’s throw from the world’s most interesting steakhouses when the grills had all been turned off, in addition to the comedy of getting a suitcase of flimsy floral attire and no heat clothes for the upcoming southern hemisphere winter ought to I have remained caught in Argentina.
These had been my predominant issues. Yet for some cause, many in my circle had been erratically preoccupied with my lonesomeness.
“I can’t believe you’re over there alone.”
“If only you had a partner to lock down with.”
“You of all people shouldn’t live life by yourself.”
Singlehood, and never the pandemic, was assigned as the largest risk to my psychological well being. Admittedly, the curler coaster of the information cycle tore waves of hysteria by means of my physique on a couple of event, however my lack of companionship didn’t exacerbate my unease. I was anticipated to sink into an prolonged bout of listlessness because of my “situation,” when in reality, I flourished and thrived by myself.
However, the supposition that contentment and singlehood are mutually unique is problematic. The condolences I obtained for being quarantined in Argentina on my own bordered on single-shaming, whether or not unintentional or not.