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.