Bridgerton felt like an Austen dream fantasy escape. Those clothes, the scenery, that actor...fantasy. I loved so much about it. Especially when a string quartet performed modern pop covers over crucial scenes. The realization of the scene with this song is so fitting. And the theme is so fitting for this year. 

I was so cautious. Painfully cautious. Rightfully cautious. And the enemy still caught me. Slugging back Riesling trying to avoid a teenager’s moody storm flying off a young girl. Collecting dirty dishes to hide out in the kitchen. Polite family hugs. Breathe in. Cough. Ha! 

It’s an apparently highly contagious strain. Although, hopefully, mild. I have a cough that comes and goes, from deep in my diaphragm. It raises my whole chest. It cannot be spoken over. I have body aches, intense sore limbs, but I also was trying to maneuver ill placed boxes before my symptoms presented themselves. I’m not as drained as the others, but trying to pursue a normal course requires too much of my energy. 

I pray this is the worst. That the solitude is the worse. That it won’t have any future impact. That it won’t pass on to anyone else. 

And just in case it’s not the worse, in case there’s more, I’m putting my affairs together. I would like to promise there will be no more uncomfortable letters, but I write. When all else fails. If all comes to an end, I want to share my words, one last time. 

So happy fucking new year. Please bring better news. Please bring more love. Make more love. Bring back live music and hugging and squealing with good friends. 

Labels: Bridgerton, Covid, Jane Austen