By Andrea Goto
There are a few nuggets of knowledge I've acquired during this COVID-19 quarantine that, had we not been ordered to stay indoors and isolated from others, I might have gone an entire extroverted life not knowing. And for that I am thankful.
One, in the sage words of Ms. Gloria Gaynor, I will survive. Isolation, that is. (I'm uncertain if I'd survive COVID-19 and I'm perfectly happy not having this tested.) In fact, by week two, I kind of hit my stride. I created a daily schedule that included working out with my virtual trainer, work (blessedly, I still have a job I can do from home), cleaning (sort of), cooking (less than sort of), helping my daughter with homework (English only), and binge-watching the latest family-friendly superhero series on Netflix, of which there are an infinite supply (thanks, DC Comics) when I really just want to get through an entire episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta without interruption. Oh, and I've relied upon the approximate 3,000 texts per day with my close-friend group to make me feel as if I'm not in this alone.
Of course, I'm hardly alone. There's an entire nation of people hunkered down, together, alone.
Enter Zoom. It promises much-needed, face-to-face connection. We can conduct meetings, classes, workouts, and jam sessions. But what Zoom has taught me and my like-minded Gen X'ers is that we need some freaking work done.
My daughter, 14, is a natural-born citizen of social media. She does her hair and makeup before her Zoom classes. She has special lighting. Tilts her head just the right way. I'm still navigating the "right way." South? West? Chin up? Chin down?
When I'm on Zoom, I'm a deer-in-headlights-with-a-what-appears-to-be-rosacea-and-a-sagging-jawline. I discovered this on the maiden voyage; a meet-up with the aforementioned friend group.
"What the hell?" one friend says in horror, pulling at her forehead to smooth the creases.
"Do I really look like this?" says another, unattractively tucking her chin towards her neck, creating an unfortunate effect that I can only describe as "turtling."
I try different lighting. Natural. Overhead. Direct. Then I decide to just go dark because, really, I've run out of options. My daughter suggests using a filter to turn myself into a doe with hearts floating from my head but that just seems inauthentic.
Funny thing is, I look at my friends on the screen and by comparison, they are beautiful. They're how I see them every day. Makeup-less at the gym, ready to, as we like to say, "Let's get biiiiiigggggg!"
But seeing ourselves in all of our naturalness can be a little … well, alarming. Jarring. It's like drinking a truth serum and discovering, "Yup, this is you, sister." And unlike the generations that follow, we aren't as used to screens. We don't know how to prepare. We don't live by them. We pick the best possible photo, make it our profile and move on, because who has time for those filters anyway? And why is looking like a doe cute and not creepy?
I assure you, it's full-on creepy.
Maybe I need to make time to figure this technology out. Or maybe I need to take real action.
I know my friends probably see me and love me as I am—or rather, they're too busy scrutinizing themselves on Zoom to even notice there's someone else in the room.
But the other nugget of knowledge I've garnered is that the camera doesn't lie. Unless you use a filter. And I really don't think anyone is going to buy that I magically transformed into a doe-like version of myself.
So bring on the Botox, bro—as soon as it's safe to do so, of course. And thank you, Zoom, for this lesson. I'll see you again after a few cc's of liquid magic.
