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  • Tara R


Ok, guys, I thought this day would never come. It usually takes more than two little shots to make me feel this flush, this emboldened, this downright invincible. That is, until I see SO MANY EFFIN PEOPLE out there. Then, I am far less brawny and far more bumbling. I become less Superman, more Clark Kent. In fact, I can barely even remember how to be a human being at all.

The new Post-Pandemic social truths:

Are you talking to ME?! I mean, don’t get me wrong. I am happy to see you as you strut up Madison Ave with a newfound pep in your step. You go, girl! I may pretend not to recognize you, though. It's not personal -- it's just that sidewalk small-talk is my new kryptonite, and I’d be more comfortable around you if you were, say, an Amazon box.

Girls just wanna have foreign TV. Look, I want to bring back my inner party animal as much as the next gal, but I think she’s currently buried beneath 4 seasons of a Turkish TV show with really hot actors. Trust me, I can rally, but, for the time being, I can only bring it on for the next episode of Black Money Love. Pass the clicker.

Deranged people are my ride or die. Cody was cute, for a bit. But these days, when I crave some fun and flirty, there is no theme ride out there as fulfilling as the nice-guy-turned-psycho-killer TV shows that flood my Netflix feed. I mean, sure, it slayed me when my husband honked like a madman while he waited outside Lester’s for me to camp-shop with two kids, but actually, it didn’t. Not like the unlucky wife of that sexy sociopath with the impish smile. She’s off the leaderboard for good. Lucky me!

Norma Desmond is my spirit animal. On the one hand, I am ready for my closeup now; on the other hand, I have exactly nowhere to go. (Though, fun fact: there's a 10-block radius around my apartment building that I could successfully navigate blindfolded.) We are big, it’s the neighborhood that got small.

There is no Plan B. I am all for making plans - large, swirling, grandiose plans! But, I’m out of practice. Yesterday, when the yogurt machine at Butterfield broke, I cursed, circled the block 4 times, and went home.

Dinner party anxiety is real. I cannot wait to be three-drinks in – and by in, I mean indoors. In somebody’s house. In someone’s dining room. But, I’m also a little nervous about my processing speed. I’m not used to so many people speaking at once. I mean, you can't pause a party mid-story to ask your husband to explain what just happened, or to put on closed captioning. If it’s Saturday Night Live, I might have stage fright.

Hugs are no longer simple. On the one hand, I savor the feel of an overdue warm embrace. On the other hand, people kinda repulse me.

But really, I’m good. I’m vaxxed and game for anything. Starting next week...


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