Regular folks will freak out, which is always fun to watch.
Neurotics will go absolutely apeshit in a more dramatic-than-usual way, clearing out supermarket shelves of all the salted nuts for some reason (highly entertaining).
Hypochondriacs will have their moment, basking in the glow of the validation they’ll finally receive from friends and family for having already committed to memory every country on the CDC website we’re banned from visiting.
Face masks will become de rigueur and secretly embraced by the whole family: testosterone-challenged dads trying to grow mid-life goatees, sullen teens afflicted by cheek acne, and moms who’ll no longer have to bleach their upper lip or pluck Aunt Peggy’s stray chin hair that catches the light at holiday meals.
Those with family on the prairie will abandon their homes for the hinterland and I’ll finally get to squat in the dwelling of my choice, one with a heated swimming pool, automatic ice cube maker on the fridge door, and 6-8 newly designated walk-in closets.
Mass transit will grind to a halt, people will refrain from using their gas-guzzlers, and our carbon footprint will shrink, giving renewed zest towards achieving our country’s Paris Agreement climate goals. Also, I’ll finally get to check off a personal goal of riding my bike through the now-desolate Holland Tunnel in a gorilla suit whilst singing “If They Could See Me Now.”
A phalanx of 1918 Spanish flu epidemic re-enactors will rise to power based on the national assumption they know how to lead us out of this.
All my nemeses over ninety will die. Serves them right.
The intelligentsia who power our bundled WiFi services and robots will be quarantined by law, so the only way to get our news and music will be via radio like in the olden days. Our nation will be reunited by the same Top 20 songs once again, except we won’t be able to Google the correct lyrics. Some will sing, “She’s about to love you” and others, “She’s a butt above you.” Also, we’ll have to revert to watching our children make up dances in the living room and build couch cushion forts. Damn them.
Flu epidemic chic means heavy, gathered skirts to the ground make a comeback and leg-shaving is no longer a feminist flashpoint.
Iconoclasts and artists wear their masks at rakish angles. Drag Queens invent a whole new mask vernacular.
Fashion-demic style proliferates so that mediums see a surge in revenue as their clients ask to be transported back in time seeking design inspiration from other mass pandemic “destinations” like the Civil War and Black Death. Models who return through the portal to 1918 are mistaken for flu victims and given last rites.
Breakfast bars are finally allowed to be eaten for breakfast, and not just in case of an emergency, as Mom harangues. Hallelujah.
Everyone’s dream diet is adapted by the few remaining survivors: salty soups, jerky, and sex. Except that most are too weak for robust shenanigans, so propagation ends and we die out like the Shakers.
Canned everything. Except laughter, which will be spare and haunting.
All day. Every day. Sweatpants.
