Member-only story
No Reentry
Midlife in a pandemic
When the pandemic started and you all went home with your toilet paper and locked your doors, I was already there. I’ve been hiding out with bulk supplies for years, like some doomsday hermit, ever since peri/menopause body-slammed me and wrestled me into submission. I was working on my triumphant return when the plague showed up.
Imagine: You’re at a party and it’s going great. Lots of people, good food, wine’s flowing. You’ve got some responsibility at this party, but the kind that’s mostly satisfying. Challenging, but ultimately fulfilling. Maybe you’re in charge of lighting or managing some of the entertainment, maybe you just had to make a lot of pie. You’ve been asked to keep a small group of children alive at the sometimes dangerous party, but it’s mostly good, if somewhat stressful.
Suddenly, a bad thing happens, but only to you. Not a party-wide event, not even an event that anyone notices, just your very own bad thing. You hit your head in a dark hallway and lose consciousness, or eat some bad shrimp and end up woozy in the loo. Clotheslined in the backyard. Whatever. You realize that you must leave immediately and figure out your shit. So you do.
You go home and read things. You take supplements, think too much, and dabble in various treatments, consulting those who know about your specific shit. You…
