It has been almost a year since I wore make-up. I have worn the same five shirts and three pairs of pants for the past 15 months until the fabric is practically see-through. I have had one professional haircut since March 2020. I have gained about ten pounds. I have been waiting for over a year for an appointment with an orthopaedic surgeon. I break into a sweat at the thought of attending the dentist or going to church in person. I have watched every enticing thing on Netflix, much of it in other languages. I have re-done all my puzzles and re-read most of my books. I may never go to a restaurant or movie theatre again. I have missed 15 months' worth of family birthday and holiday get-togethers.
On the other hand, I have established a very satisfactory morning routine, without the former soul-draining 1.5-2 hour commute. I haven't spent $240 a month on transit. I have a comfortable couch. I've turned in four manuscripts. I've invested in an excellent internet service. I'm wishing I had invested in shares in Zoom. I've learned to groom my own dog (sort of). I've practised my Italian and taken a course on doing podcasts. I have started a new hobby of restoring stained glass. I have walked through the countryside so much -- in utter peace and contentment -- that my shoes have worn completely through. I've bravely ordered a new pair of slip-ons online, hoping that they fit. (It feels like gambling, but stores are still closed to in-person shopping.) The constant chatter in my brain has grown more still and quiet. I have finally accepted my inner introvert and given her permission to thrive. I've learned to say no when necessary without guilt.
Life is not going to return to normal. Not if I have any say about it.
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