Peeking Through My Fingers

Peeking out at Pyramid Peak

I do not like scary movies. Truthfully, I never have. Still, at least in scary movies the soundtrack typically clues us in to what’s going to happen and, generally speaking, the plot twists are predictable. The theme music to Jaws made clear that the swimmers were not exactly about to play with dolphins or be surrounded by a school of colorful tropical fish.

Thankfully, scary movies also follow a familiar formula. I mean, if you haven’t seen “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” for a good send-up of scary movies, it’s worth it. Do not go into the woods to see what that noise was. Do not get a ride home from school with the creepy dude in the van. Do not knock on the door of the trapper’s cabin in the deep, dark forest to ask for directions. Definitely, under no circumstances, do not ever open the closet door while the dangerous music is playing. Yep, maybe just leave the closet door closed under all circumstances.

The problem for dealing with frightening scenarios once we leave the movie theatre is that we have no soundtrack. At the moment, I could really use one because I have genuinely no idea what is going to happen next. And that not knowing is the most challenging aspect of our current situation.

Similarly, the analyst in me likes to break down problems into the things I know, and the things I do not know. My anxiety about our current circumstances stem, as always, from what I do not know. I do not know how long; how bad; or how difficult. I certainly do not know where or when. I do not know what the solutions may be for our community, our country, or our planet. I do not know if I can trust our national leaders to steer us through the crisis or to tell us the truth (that’s the polite version). On a very specific subject, the total lack of preparedness of our country and its leaders and the virtual absence of testing means that we do not know who may have the virus or how many may have it, and there will not be enough available medical care for any members of our communities who do have it (or those that don't and still need care). Colorado is a state of 5.6 million people but the entire state has the ability to test a mere 167 people each day for COVID-19 (according to the Pitkin County Manager), and receiving test results currently takes a week – this is not a recipe for answering questions or alleviating anxiety.

It’s like the riddles kids like to tell on ski lifts: you and your friends or family are in a room with twenty doors; one door is an exit to the outside and safety; ten doors are to closets with monsters in them, but just one of the monsters can kill you; five doors have your friends and family in them, but you can only look inside from six feet away or else someone may die; and the remaining four doors have roulette games going on that allow you to buy essentials when you win, get sick when you lose, or both. Cue “Jaws” theme music here. The solution to the riddle, for now, is to sit tight and wait for more information and for the inevitable developments to occur. In my case, as I do in scary movies, I cover my eyes with my hand but I peek through my fingers because I really do want to know even if it's frightening.

In actuality, peeking through our fingers is vitally important. If I were so scared that I just couldn’t peek, imagine what I’d be missing. I’ve been going for hikes and long walks through the area; I’m keeping in touch with the people who are important to me; and I definitely am making the point to appreciate where I am and how fortunate I am to be here. As bad as this is and will get, the worst result will be if we fail to keep what’s important in perspective and that we will have our eyes so covered that when it’s all over we won’t be able to fully appreciate our return to a normal life.

So go ahead, peek through your fingers. Because one door is the closet with a monster but the other may provide a view of the beautiful mountains outside. Just wash your hands and keep your distance. Please.

Aspen Highlands on Sunday, March 15; first day of our closing.

Looking over a quiet Aspen on Monday, March 16