New. Year. Count. Down.

by | Jan 14, 2021 | 0 comments

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I know exactly what I’m wearing to the first celebratory anything I attend when this wretched pandemic ends. 

 

Hanging in my closet is my favorite purple dress and the funky wrap I bought more than a decade ago from my favorite Dallas shop. Both are wrinkle-free and ready to be worn.  

I want, no, I need, to dress up and feel pretty. I want to go to a restaurant I’ve never been to, the reopening of the symphony season or a fancy fundraiser.

I mean it.

It’s one thing to go braless and wear flip flops, jeans, and t-shirts to shop or see a movie, but it’s another thing to live braless in jeans and t-shirts daily for months without end, stuck under what-the-hell-who-cares house arrest.

I will get a haircut, facial, manicure, pedicure. I will dredge up my sparse makeup kit and wear nice lipstick instead of Burt’s Bees chapstick. I will hug all the people I used to hug. I might even kiss a few.

I tend to be unpredictable, so I might also hug a stranger or two, especially if I can finally do my own grocery shopping, some poor unsuspecting clerk restocking the frozen vegetable aisle. And when the store manager summons law enforcement because a crazy woman is randomly hugging employees, I might even hug the responding cop or firefighter for the unadulterated heck of it.

I’m not sure, but if confident lightning won’t strike, there’s an outside chance I’ll even slip into somebody’s place of worship for a more quiet expression of gratitude for family members who were spared Covid’s miserable reach. Maybe sit for a moment more to remember those whose families weren’t.

There aren’t enough thanks in the world for hospital workers who slogged through the last 10 months and have continued to do so, even when they weren’t doing it for anyone I know.

I know for sure I’ll never be able to adequately tell friends how much it meant to get chatty phone calls from time to time — even those made too early in the morning or almost too late at night. I can’t wait to cook for them again.

I forgive my daughter for enlisting friends to spy and report on my well being (for heaven’s sake, don’t let her know I know). All mothers should have daughters who care that much.

Such random musings pretty much sum up 2020 from my tiny space in the universe. All things Trumptopian will soon be in the hands of jurisdictions from which there is no escape. I can’t clutter my little pea brain with anymore thoughts of that man and his ilk.

The countdown has begun. 

The dress awaits.

En garde, 2021.

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<a href="https://writersatlarge.com/riff/author/ellen-sweets/" target="_self">Ellen Sweets</a>

Ellen Sweets

Ellen Sweets is a journalist and author. Her 50-year career as a reporter began at The St. Louis American, her father’s black weekly. She has since written for The St. Louis Post-Dispatch; The Dallas Morning News; The Denver Post; and Neiman-Marcus. Her book, Stirring It Up With Molly Ivins was published by the University of Texas Press in 2011. She lives in Austin, Texas.

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