Hermit, recluse, or agoraphobe? Why it gets harder and harder to leave the house

It has been more than seven months since Covid-19 first darkened our doorsteps. At first shelter-in-place restrictions seemed confining, now they are a warm blanket of security.

A friend of mine recently paid a visit. After descending our epic driveway and coming to a landing on the parking pad below, he sprung from the car with his opening statement.

"Boy! You guys really live in the boonies!"

We don't really. Even in traffic we can be in San Juan in less than thirty minutes. But from his perspective-- a person who has know "urban" Robert for nearly three decades, the location probably did seem a bit jarring.

Consider this: This same friend once arrived on our Bolton Hill doorstep in Baltimore with neither directions nor address. "It was easy." He said, when asked how he accomplished this wonder. "I found a nice neighborhood, drove around until it got scary, and then looked for your car."

And that was of course me; the inner-city pioneer. For most of my life I lived at the center of things in whichever city I resided. I think however, my turn in Manhattan did me in on urban life. Once I left New York, I was ready for a lawn and garden and an absence of noise and grit; a trend that has continued unabated (and even escalated) over the last fifteen years.

But since the Covid-19 lock-downs began, I have noticed a strange transformation even from this. I have noticed that I have very little desire to even go out of the house anymore.

At first I thought it was just prudence; I mean, I have any number of health reasons to recommend me avoiding exposure to Covid-19 (not to mention certain elements of my illness that can leave me confused and anxious is public). But as the weeks turned into months, I began to realize going-out was more chore than treat, and I wonder how many others have discovered this phenomenon as well. I probably wouldn't even have noticed it myself if my friend hadn't said, "twenty years ago, you could have never lived out here."

Perhaps its age. At 55 there is very little that recommends being seen that can't be seen from my balcony. If we have company, and they wish to do something, I will generally make the effort. But now, the tranquility of my home is far more appealing than grind. And I think social media helps that as well. Chatting with friends I have known for decades, and who are poised in their own worlds and in their own lives worlds away, is stimulating and delightful; albeit vicarious.

So there you have it: hermit, recluse, or agoraphobe? Whichever it is I am resigned to the label (and the life) until something better, different, or safer comes along. Maybe not even then.