At home, with the cat who adores me and the blue light holding me in its thrall, I am never alone.
But in reaching out and finding no hand reaching back, the gulf feels unbridgeable.
As I said, a pandemic is a lonesome thing.
In a year I've only been touched - for more than the briefest hug or littlest toddler cuddle - by people I pay. My massage therapist. A hair stylist. It is not enough.
They are good at what they do, but they don't hold the length of me in their arms as I drift to sleep. They don't replenish the cells of my body like the pure water of a caress. They don't breathe new life into me with their kisses.
I walk out. I wander my neighborhood. I strain to make connection with friendly eyes since the rest of my face is hidden.
And I shrink away. The too close shopper. The slipped mask. They are to be avoided, as I - a stranger with too bright eyes - is to be avoided.
This unending pandemic is a lonesome thing.
I signed up for match dot com and it revealed the writing embossed by this year. It has become a part of the story.
Some guy on pleads "give me a chance." Please ignore the flashing red light. Please take me at this word, not my previous words.
But I know.
I know that the biggest mistakes I've ever made have come from listening to those words instead of to my heart. I know I don't belong there - that these guys are not the measure of THE man and thus cannot take his place. That as long as he's the measuring stick, I will stay alone.
A pandemic is a lonesome thing.
But some kinds of being lonely are okay.
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