Some important people — like, for example, Colorado Governor Jared Polis — have recently told me that I can throw away my mask.
Now that I’m vaccinated.
Just toss the thing in the trash, like a used piece of Kleenex. He didn’t use those exact words, but that was the general idea.
For some of us, that’s going to be easier said than done.
I’m not one of those folks who spent a small fortune on “masks for every occasion” or “masks to coordinate with every outfit”. I didn’t splurge on a complete set of favorite-sports-team masks, for example. I didn’t buy a camo pattern mask for deer hunting season. Or a tie-dyed mask for attending rock concerts. I didn’t have a special mask to wear at Black Lives Matter demonstrations.
My masks are the cheapo blue-paper masks from Walmart. Box of 50 for $4.99. Nothing special.
Not that I have anything against fancy, colorful fabric masks; some of my best friends wore fancy, colorful fabric masks, and I never criticized them for that decision. To each his own; that’s my motto.
Personally, I don’t like to attract attention, or “make statements” with my clothes, or shoes, or hats… or my masks. A blue-paper mask allows me to fade into the social background, so to speak… to look like an ordinary guy, shopping for paper towels.
So you might think it would be no big deal for me to toss them out, like Governor Polis is telling me to do. Even though I still have more than half a box left. That’s, like, 30 masks. (I tend to wear them until they wear out completely.)
But you get accustomed to wearing a mask, right? I just don’t know how I would feel, walking into Walmart without a mask on. Sure, there will be more and more people shopping there without masks, and eventually I will look really stupid, still wearing one. But I’ve enjoyed the anonymity provided by a pale blue facial covering. When I see someone I don’t want to talk to, coming down the same aisle, I just pull the mask up a little higher on my face, and most of the time they don’t recognize me.
One of the great things about masks, if you’re a man, is that you don’t have to shave as often. Yes, when the beard starts poking through the fabric, it’s probably time to break out the razor. But before the pandemic, I had to shave pretty much every morning, if I was planning on going out. (Admittedly, I don’t go out much.)
Obviously, Governor Polis doesn’t care if people recognize him at Walmart. He probably likes the attention. That’s how most television personalities are; they want to be noticed.
But it goes further that simply remaining anonymous, for me. That paper mask, wrapped around my ears and face, has been like a warm security blanket. In fact, it reminds me of the old, worn, baby-blue blanket that I carried around with me constantly, when I was two years old. I used to suck my thumb and hold the soft blanket against the side of my face. Such comfort that blanket provided, for an insecure little boy with a cruel older brother. (Of course, I’m unable to suck my thumb now, while wearing a comforting paper mask… the mask gets in the way, and I probably wouldn’t want to, anyway. It seems a bit childish.)
But all of that — all those protective qualities that masks have been providing — that’s not the hardest part.
The coronavirus arrived here in Colorado on March 5, 2020. A day that will live in infamy. By the following day, the presumptive case count had climbed to eight. Four days later, the count was at 17, and Governor Polis — who didn’t even own a mask, himself, at the time — declared a state of emergency. He probably didn’t realize it at the time (there was a lot of confusion, back then) but the Governor was poised to separate the sheep from the goats.
The sheep, being people like me, who right away started wearing masks, just as soon as we could get our hands on some. And the goats, being the people who right away realized that mask-wearing was an element of Socialist Mind Control, and who refused to bow down to Governor Polis and his public health cronies.
The goats asserted that the rest of us — walking around in our fabric or paper masks — were nothing but “sheep”.
And to those of us wearing the masks, the goats were… well, they were the “goats”, I guess.
Before March 2020, I never knew — walking down the aisle at Walmart — if the people around me felt the same way I felt, about infectious diseases. But once we — the sheep — all started wearing masks, it was like we all suddenly declared our allegiance to one another. We announced ourselves, in a very visual manner, as members of the Fauci fan club, out to save the world from an invisible germ. In this, together. All for one, and one for all.
Governor Polis has now ruined this whole, wonderful thing. He’s told us to dispose of our masks.
Once, I knew who my friends were.
Now, how will I tell?