The play unfolds before my eyes, there stands the actor who is me

Because I do my assignments, I was determined to know the speech, off-book.

I practiced in front of Josie and Zeke, both of whom applauded me enthusiastically. They're so sweet and encouraging. It made me feel really good.

"Are you going to be in a play? Will you be famous? Can we come watch you?"

It's the famous part that they were most interested in.

I explained that it's just for practice, just for a class. Just for fun.

I wanted to have some fun.

I come from an actor-y family. My grandma Ruth was an actress and a radio DJ. Throughout my childhood, I watched my dad do community theater in Venezuela and Israel and India. I did school plays and community theater in middle and high school, and a little bit in college.

Chava in Fiddler on the Roof. Margot in Diary of Anne Frank. Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Alice, one of the romantic leads, in You Can't Take It With You.

 Let me tell you, there are few things more mortifying than being an 13-year-old 8th grader in a high school production and having to kiss a 17-year-old senior on stage.

But I did it. I kissed Trevor, who seemed ancient to me and who towered over me by well over a foot. I persevered. The show must go on.

The acting class was a 6 week series. It provided me with something that wasn't work and wasn't child-rearing and wasn't for anybody else. It was just mine. It was creative. I was in a different environment and interacting with different people.

I did the speech. I received some constructive criticism, but felt like I did it well.

And then it was over. Now getting out into the world and interacting with new people is over, for the time being.

I went into self-quarantine this past Sunday - I was skiing up in Summit County on Saturday, and it turned out they had had a cluster of positive tests. Then that night the governor ordered the ski resorts closed. Now everything is closed.

It's hard.

I'm not fully an extrovert, but I'm not fully an introvert either. I like being alone, and being around lots of people can wear me out. Big crowds can make me anxious and exhausted. But I like having it at least be an option.

My kids and I are home, and we're all getting along. We're keeping the house clean and making time to get outside, although we had a snowstorm yesterday and it's still cold and wet, so our daily games of street hockey have been put on hold. I'm exercising every day. I've discovered that deep-cleaning the house every day relaxes me.

We have plenty of food and wifi and games to play. I work for a government agency that doesn't depend upon customers or profits to keep its doors open (though our doors aren't actually open right now), so I'm not worried about money.

I am maintaining connections with people via email and text and FaceTime. My mother and I have coffee together every morning. I chatted the other day with a sorority sister whom I haven't seen or spoken with in 30 years. The Denver ZTAs are having a virtual happy hour tonight.

But I'm scared. I miss my family. I worry about them. I worry about my children. I worry about myself, and how devastating it would be for my kids if something happened to me. I mean, I'm extremely strong and healthy, but strong and healthy people have been hit by this virus and are now dead.

I'm not particularly afraid of death - once you're dead, what's the difference? But I know what it would do to my family.

It's actually not like me to worry. I'm not a worrier. My mother taught me from an early age to not worry about what you can't control. You can only deal with what's in front of you. If something bad happens, you deal with it when it happens, but worrying about a thing before it's a thing isn't helpful. My natural inclination is to stay calm. Don't freak out. Be zen.

So it suprised me when I had a major panic/anxiety attack the other day, and she was the one who was able to talk me off the ledge. She's better at this than I am.

My dad offered to drive out here, but we told him it wasn't a good idea for many reasons. Not the least of which is that he's a terrible driver.

He laughed when I said that.

We take it day by day, and play our roles. We play all the roles. In my house right now, I am mother and teacher and playmate and friend and therapist, all at the same time, all rolled into one.

We go along and try to act as if it's all normal, so that we don't go crazy.

Pretending is the only way to get through it.