I have never considered myself a loner or even someone who is really a homebody. not surrounded by a gaggle of friends, but social none the less. living away from my “home” on the east coast, I have become proficient at being the “away” girl, after months and months of being inside, I got used to it. so used to it, I began to enjoy it. more and more. I took solace in my bedroom and in my bed — even as a place and space to write, read, relax and devour entire seasons of programs. I know we are told to make the bedroom a sacred space for sleep (and intimacy). I was not eager for the world to reopen. I could relate to being a recluse. I had heard the word tossed around in a Hollywood way — knowing famed actresses from the past that decided they were done with stage and screen and just never came out again. I imagine it. what would I miss? we had grown so wary of being in a crowd even with a mask. I am tenuous outside. Louder noises. Traffic. Strangers pass and I wonder if they too have had the vaccine. To hug or not to hug. Shaking hands seems worse. So here I sit, contemplating my re-emergence. It can feel light to be in the company of those we care about. It can also feel safe to just stay inside. It is all very confusing to me. I thought I would be so excited for a return to normalcy. But I would rather just stay home. Alas, the reclusive of Oakdale Ave.
