Last week, I observed my one-year anniversary of having Covid … by getting sick again. I can’t tell you if it was a flu or RSV or the “C” one. I can tell you that I got my tree up, and before I could hang lights or ornaments, the fever set in.
As I hunkered down on my couch for the next several days, eyeing the reminder of a half-completed task, the magnetic pull towards Pity Party (also known, in PQ parlance, as a hijacking by my Victim Saboteur) was so strong. One year ago, I spent Christmas day alone, quarantined, my house unloved, unvisited, and undecorated – my season like an adult Seussian book where the Covid Grinch stole my wreath as well as my fondue and my red wine.

It was a lot of years ago, but it’s still a story I tell: I was skiing fast, right at my edge, which is on the high side. I snagged my ski in a bit of soft snow and went down hard onto my shoulder and my head. It was the second day in my life that I ever wore a helmet, inspired by my then-young children who wondered, reasonably, why I made them wear helmets when I didn’t sport one myself.


I want to talk about 