Allow me to explain. On Monday, June 16, I was finally given government permission to return to the gymnasium that I had been affiliated with for over two decades. It actually is a satellite branch built in a large warehouse separate from the main facility. This smaller, "grittier" gym has more free weights to lift, tires to flip, and heavy bags to punch. I go for the boxing.

I also go for the people. The desk staff knows me pretty well, so much so that I get a "special" set of towels. They like that I usually come in with some quirky remark that generates a chuckle or two. Every time I enter, my goal is to get them to laugh. There is always some chit-chat. Each day I find out a little bit more about the staff, and they discover a little bit more about me – where they went out the night before, what muscles are aching me today.

But now there is plexiglass.

When I arrived on Monday, the first time back in at least fourteen weeks, I had to first go to a check-in tent just outside of the building's doors. There, I had to sign a waiver about coronavirus, answer a set of questions about any symptoms I might have, and then get my temperature taken remotely by a gentleman with a mask and one of those thermal scanners. Once I passed that gauntlet, I could walk through the doors that were propped open so I didn't have to touch the handle.