I sat in Gruel Britannia with my friend Kerri for dinner the other night. Neither that bland opening sentence, nor the event itself, would qualify as earthshaking in a far, far distant past. But today, in this environment, both that uninspired introduction and the not-at-all bland shared meal might make heads turn and eyebrows rise.
I adore Kerri. On the surface, this makes perfect sense: we both teach yoga, share a penchant for storytelling, and adore Dr. Martens. But it goes beyond that. When I met her, we had that oh-so-cliched click. Her irreverence, luminosity, spirituality, and abundant hipness rescued me from a dreaded reentry into American life after a fairy tale year in England. And here she was, about to save me again, from another dreaded reentry – this time into a society that has altered unrecognizably since I had last visited it. She sat across the table, ready again to lend a hand as I dipped my toe into the post-pandemic water.
I share more with Kerri than with many of my closest friends. We are simply simpatico. We have never had a talk-every-day, text-every-ten-minutes relationship; she shares custody of her two young children with her ex, and her new partner moved out of the city and in with her as Covid-19 flared. She works remotely and, as did so many other parents, single-handedly shepherded her children through remote learning all year. We barely had time for the occasional ping. But she is the kind of friend for whom the passage of time between those pings evaporates into some wormhole, having no impact on our bond.
“You were the first person outside of my bubble that I called to see.” The enormous wave of incredulity and relief found its way out my tear ducts in droplets of salt water. I felt the same. Our double-vaccinated status allowed us to share a decidedly British repast with impunity and immunity. Such a big small thing. Such a momentous insignificant occasion.
The fifteen days since my second jab have long passed. The CDC tells me I can comfortably carouse maskless. Outside. Even inside with others of similar inoculation status. Gyms, stores, and restaurants have increased their capacity. Cocktails alone are in the offing (we no longer need to order wings just to prove we’re “eating,” too). I feel the need to break out in song with friends, neighbors, and townsfolk in downtown Westport wearing coordinating but just different enough costumes in an impromptu, yet carefully choreographed chorus of George Michael’s Freedom.
But just now, life does not so much imitate kitschy art. The signs of at least my liberation are more subtle and slow to reveal themselves. For – how long has it been? -ever? – I have donned stretchy pants, stretchy half-camis that stand poorly in for bras, and oversized shirts. I have not worn makeup, jewelry, or hair dye in an ice age; even on Zoom. Old lockdown-induced habits die hard.
Just as that dinner signified so much more than the ingestion of calories, so my jeans, grown up blouse, and mascara signified more than an adult dressing like, well, an adult. Baby steps, admittedly, but the baby pool feels safer at the minute than the deep end. No mosh pits for me anytime soon. Not that mosh pits were ever for me at any time.
This reluctance comes partially from a small, irrational demon whispering, “what if the vaccine doesn’t work? How do we know who’s vaccinated?” and partially from sheer force of habit. Do something for over a year, especially to ensure survival, and it becomes muscle memory.
Later in the week, I sat outside in a circle with the book group I facilitate. This group of erudite, engaged women I now consider friends had met virtually for the year. Seeing them in person emphasized the loss of personal connection that results from strictly virtual connections. I wore a scarf. I wore make up. I wore the silver Om Mane Padme Hum ring that reminds me to breathe. I’d unearthed in a Colorado riverbed, my eye drawn to it as a snake slithered by, at another time in my life when my anxiety crested as high as the rapids we rode that day.
I hope that those who chose to attend via Zoom this time will venture out next month to meet under the majestic maple that shaded us on the lawn of the Weston Library when we discuss Graham Swift’s Waterland. Maybe then I’ll wear the color-coordinated triad of beaded bracelets that used to adorn my wrist back in the parallel pre-pandemic universe. Maybe a real bra will provide support – moral and otherwise. Baby steps, right?