A society measured in millimeters of combative growth, constantly inching forward, immediately stopped in its tracks. We’re all treading water, waiting to chase proverbial waterfalls with abandon. We’re all looking for ways to enrich lockdown like a sourdough, lest our growth stagnates. I binge podcasts on betterment and dream of a neater, more efficient existence with no slack to take up. My tasks multi-ed, my meditations deepened, my emails crisper. I spiritually accept the Among Us vote out the impostor 2020 shirt challenge of doing the work. I develop a dazzling capsule beach wardrobe, navel-grazing with open-air toes, but I only make it as far as the local supermarket. The after-work kombucha I’ve painstakingly fermented tastes wrong on the sofa. My chakras are a scribble. I think I’m receptive to the universe, but my cat is over-stroked, my plants overwatered, and my husband is wearily repeating himself. I’m missing something. You’d think I’d miss the inane chatter of dinner in a multistory restaurant or the last-minute Ubering or stoking the embers of a house party. But in these heady times of self-actualized self-optimization, I miss being late. Life before lockdown was short on thrills, and running late was my cheapest.