Confessions Of A Woman In (Semi) Isolation

Things are starting to “open up again” in Toronto but I’m in no rush to get anywhere.

I’ve perfected the art of selecting daytime vs nighttime pairs of pyjamas to lend some dimension to my days. While they’re both ever so slightly distinguishable from each other, one thing remains common among them: if they pass the sniff test, they’re acceptable.

Bras are the devil.

I’ve been low-key beating myself up for not being more “productive” in my passion pursuits during the last year, as if the shutdown/open up/semi shut down/open up confusion of a global pandemic is conducive to the safety I need to let go and be my best creative self.

I don’t think anyone wants to hear what I have to say, anyway.

The work from home movement has kindled a love for track pants that I’ve never felt before. The fuzzier they are on the inside – the better. The warmer they are – the better. The less I have to pay for them – the better.

I miss beaches.

Music has a way of easing my shitty moods but only if I have my AirPods on and often when I coax the cat to dance with me (which lasts as long as she can stand it).

My fur baby has made all this COVID-nuttiness truly bearable. Mostly because she’s teaching me how to love myself through it all.

Vanilla hazelnut Haagen Dazs bars are still my favourite treats but the frozen Tiramisu cake I found at the urban grocer downstairs runs a very close second and I don’t think I can pay for dessert at a restaurant anymore when I know where I can get a whole cake I love for less than the price of a slice.

While I’ve always known that I’m an empath/introvert/sensitive soul, it’s incredible what you learn about your (in)tolerance for being around people too long without recharging when you haven’t been in a crowd for almost two years.

I could never be back in an office five days a week.

I appreciate you. Thank you.

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