I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling a bit blue lately. Not a serious, deep depression but more a just-under-the-surface malaise or maybe melancholy. I understand the source of this—the pandemic—but in that understanding, there’s also no end in sight.
I know, I know. Fauci has said we’re getting there but I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten the Hot Vax Summer that never was. I was looking forward to it if you must know. Lots of middle-aged casual sex with other vaxholes like me bragging about our double shot status because, well, you know, that’s sexy as hell.
It was during that early Covid period that the highlight of my day was a phone call from a man I’d met only once for a date before the world shut down. I still cringe when I think about that date in early March 2020, unmasked, in a bar so crowded and noisy one had to yell to be heard. An entire fucking enclosed space of yelling close-talkers, potentially shedding covid droplets at a greater rate than if we were all using our inside voices.
My date, Ted, was gorgeous. The sort of handsome that one might find modeling on the Brooks Brothers website. Tall, fit, with thick grey hair I had the urge to run my fingers through. He wore jeans, a cashmere sweater and what I believe were Tod’s boots.
Ted was clever. When I described a friend’s recent turmoil with her boyfriend and then her mother he said, “That’s not real life, that’s a Tennessee Williams play.”
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