This is my anthem of the new year. Or just the song spilling out as I walk out of the Covid fog. It sounds like the music for a badass entrance, a survivor’s entrance. 

I was really lucky or really just out of time. I fell under a newer strand that appeared in December- the symptoms are much less severe for those without pre-existing conditions, but it spreads even faster. 

With my cats at my side, I was snuggled through the worst of it. Quite literally, they were always by my side. Even now they are affectionate and social and maybe just a little less sassy. My dog was a good girl and bravely guarded the house for me. 

Now that I feel like myself again, health wise, it’s time to feel happy and alive and like my very best self. I painted my nails, dark. On the other side of death dark. I shaved my legs to feel sexy again. I used my foam roller to loosen up my muscles again. I moved a few bookcases in preparation for my home office renovation. I think all that’s left to get into the new year groove is to order a few more seeds and put my name on the book of bees. 

Labels: Covid

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