I've noticed a trend in my social media feed, of people slipping back down into a spiral of sadness and depression because of the turn the virus has taken this holiday season. I am going to resist the suck of that particular undertow with every fibre of my being. This is not 2020. This is not the winter of desolation. This is a winter of vaccines, and a new strain that is not the Delta variant. This is a winter of memories of reunions this summer and fall, and how good they felt, and planning new ones. This is a winter of masks, and respect for each other's space and safety. This is a winter of not only seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but also of realizing that the distance is really just a short jaunt. This is a winter of life, not death. This is not a winter of fearing that the world is ending and that there's no point of any of it. Anyone who knows me knows that I am the least negativist of all the creatures in Christendom. In my last life, I was a stout, no-nonsense Maritime fishwife living on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic with my ten children, and a husband who was always away on the boats, and with no time for codswallop and jackanapes. So yeah, no. Fuck you, Omicron. And fuck you, anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers. We've got your number. What I'm sad about this Christmas is missing my Palm Springs family, period, but also knowing (not hoping) that next year we'll be together again. The only thing that's going to kill me this holiday season is too much eggnog.
