Things are rough. It’s like we’re being dragged back to where we were at the start of this pandemic. Except, this time around, nobody is acting like it. Masks aren’t required. They aren’t even encouraged half the time. Everything is open, even as employees fall ill on a daily basis. Almost a million people have died and folks still can’t be bothered to do the bare minimum. Sometimes I’m afraid. Sometimes I’m angry. Mostly I’m resigned to the fact that I’m going to catch the Omicron variant. Even if I do ‘everything right’, so many around me won’t.

You know what I miss? More than diners, concerts, or anything mundane – trusting strangers. Or, at least being able to ignore them. I don’t know about you, but I’m awfully tired of being disappointed and infuriated every day by people I don’t even know.

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As these things proceed to regress, so does my relationship. My partner is once again wracked by relentless anxiety. Calling it ‘awful’ is an understatement as I watch her empty her guts into the toilet every other night. It’s been hard for her and for me as distance is wedged between us once again. It’s breeding frustration and aggravation over every unwashed dish and unreciprocated compliment. I find myself craving intimacy and space at the same time, all the time, and receiving neither. Navigating the everyday maintenance of relationships becomes an odyssey when your loved ones are all-consumed with distress. Relief is scarce, too, when half the population insists you’re overreacting to unrelenting collective trauma.

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It’s January, which means I’ll be 31 in a few weeks. I’ve decided to celebrate with a small tea party: something needlessly fancy, silly, and fun. Screw an attempt at normalcy. This is an attempt at frivolity, even as I limit my guest list to a handful, stock up on COVID home-tests, and anticipate having to call the entire thing off at a moment’s notice. It’s also project I can throw myself into for a while, meaning I might be able to lay off the doom-scrolling for a few days.

Step one meant acquiring teapots. So, I went antique shopping over the weekend. This little adventure was actually meant to be a date – one my partner and I desperately wanted for ourselves. But (wouldn’t you know it) unmasked boomers had us spiraling within the first ten minutes. One asshole in particular floated with Eva around the entire store, cornered her at a dead end, and asked why she was so nervous.

In what world is this a normal, acceptable interaction? And we’re just supposed to reconcile it? What the fuck?

Our trip was technically a success by the end. I came home with two beautiful, gilded English teapots (pictured below). I also grabbed an Edison cylinder for my antique record display, then thrifted clothes to my heart’s content at Greene Street. The date, though? Not so much. We were too busy feeling guarded, distracted, and rushed by the threat of others to enjoy our time together. Hardly a surprise, but hardly the push we needed to keep persevering as two people in love.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m waiting to see if I develop COVID systems from this radical attempt at connection. My throat already hurts, because of course it does, even though it’s only psychosomatic. Meanwhile, it’s Monday morning. Sunny and crisp. Full of potential. My hope is that this week will be easier than it felt yesterday. I hope for more breaks, small joys, and good news. More than anything, I hope my ‘scaries’ stop spilling over from Sunday to Monday to every goddamn day in this timeline. However, that’s not really up to me. It’s up to us, which doesn’t give me a lot of confidence.

That bastard from the antique shoppe can go ahead and step on a mile’s worth of Lego blocks.