9 months in. A new day. A new year. A new norm.

Here we sit - or stand if you have a tall drafting table type desk, or if you're pacing with your phone, or outside having a smoke, leaning on the bricks in the rain (I hope you've got a warm rain jacket tonight) - it's 2021. A new year. 

And yet, it doesn't feel so new anymore does it? When I leave the house I do my check: wallet, keys, phone, mask, sanitizer. The latter two no longer seem bizarre. I no longer feel as if I stepped into an Bradbury novel. Now it is unusual to see an unmasked person. I try to release my tension when they approach. Is it rude to cross the street? I remember learning to cross the street as a young girl. "Watch out for that man with a crazed look in his eye, he reeks of alcohol from here." Now we all have crazed looks in our eyes, and the only smell is our own breath. It's time to wash the masks again. 

At least it isn't Handmaid's Tale. 

Cat talks more and more each day. Demanding the wet food be available at all seconds of the day. "MEEEOOOOOW" (did you forget that my food bowl is right here and still empty?) "MEEEEOOOW" Stimulus pennies don't cover luxuries like Tiki Cat twice a day. 

The days are getting longer again, but it's getting colder. No amount of fuzzy blankets can keep me warm today. At-home dye job makes me feel better. Orange is the new blonde, right? Brad Mondo would have a field day. 

New hair. New day. New year. Happy? Sure. 

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