Updated: Aug 19
Ah . . . 2022! Whether you think it sounds like a stutter, or it rolls off the tongue like 411 (does that even still exist?), or 50210 (ah, maybe not), or 666 (yikes), the New Year typically gives us hope. It is refreshing in comparison to stale ole' 2021 with its Covid-this and Covid-that, to vax or not to vax debates, 'You're a 'Karen,' 'Hey Brandon,' Bill-Gates-drinks-baby-blood and Tom-Hanks-implants-microchip- kinda-year (or is it the other way around). But then, just at the very tail end of 2021 comes. . . dun dun dun, OMICRON! At least Covid the Corona sounds like a crown, or a lite, refreshing Mexican beer, not as menacing as, “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” ya know, Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter.
There are so many varying opinions by quote experts, who've done quote research, that it's baffling. I am so agitated and confused I feel like I am an ingredient in my morning smoothie, spun crazily around and plastered to the sides of my NutraBullet by centrifugal force. But I'm not a blueberry or kale for that matter; I am an citizen of planet Earth.
I'm dazed. I am exhausted, doing mental gymnastics over the questions: should I get rapid tested, home tested, tested at all, or should I hurry to the walk-in, rapid test site in my neighborhood stripmall , which feels about as reassuring as getting a pregnancy test at the Dollar Tree, soon to be called the Dollar Twenty-Five Cent Tree?
I'm weary of the division. I wanna love my fellow humans, despite their stance, their politics. I'm tired of socially distancing, and at times, afraid not to. I have a psychologically loving and yet destructive relationship with my mask: it’s so cozy one moment when it’s 20 degrees and it’s keeping my nose warm, but 20 minutes later I’m scorning its very fibers when a librarian scolds me for pulling it off my nose for three seconds. I’m choking on its lint balls, and my allergies are through the roof because of it. I long to teach my beloved yoga and meditation classes in person like the good old days~ you know, February 2020?
It’s my hope that this year finds us not alienating our (fill in the blank here with the person of your choice who you’ve disowned) sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, cats, friends, coworkers, frenemies, but instead building bridges . May this New Year elevate our consciousness so we can look beyond race because, “Brandons' es Lives Matter” and so do "Karenses."
I dream of a world where no man is called, “Brandon,” unless of course his name really is Brandon; and no woman at the Home Goods Store or Starbucks will be called “Karen,” unless, of course, her given name really is Karen.
May we be able to once again laugh at ourselves, wholeheartedly; receive a verbal jab without bloodshed and with good humor, and without the use of an automatic weapon. May we see that there is really no he/she/ or them and us, but just "us." And most importantly, may we do what any self-deluded American would do to cope with the impending New Year . . . No silly, not head to the nearest dispensary and treat it like a Costco by stocking-piling your “prescription,” or inhaling mass quantities of gummies like they are Pez, and you are six years old. But instead . . . let us watch Netflix like there is no tomorrow, the 2020's answer to 'mother's little helper' of the 1960's.
You say, but couldn't we get more exercise? No! Seek treatment? Of course, not! Get counseling? Heck no. Perhaps meditate? Nah, we don’t have enough time for that!
I've watched so much Netflix that I have developed a condition you too may be familiar with, if so do not see your doctor. There’s no known cure to-date. I've degenerated to the point where, honest to God, when I awake the morning after a good binge watching, I am in a streaming-coma and have Netflix Amnesia O'Brien (I’ve done the “research,” and patented the name because I discovered this malady in myself and two other people). I have absolutely no memory of what I binged the night before.
I could go on and on, but let me leave you with one last very important thought: I really hate it when you click the remote to choose a show on Netflix, and you have to move like Quick Draw McGraw so the program or movie you have your cursor poised on, shoots all over the place like an unruly fire hose, makes a “ba – boom” boomerang sort of sound, and catapults you unknowingly right into a show you never intended to watch!
Happy 2022 my fellow traveler, it may be a bumpy ride, but we are in this together! Namaste sisters and brother