Every seven years, a crisis blows into my life, launching me into a queasy tailspin. Usually when the storms hit, I fight them, flailing my feet in search of an elusive foothold, until my resistance exhausts me, and I land in my own private wreckage.
I never imagined that my next twister would be a global pandemic. In this case, it’s flung me onto the couch of my studio apartment where, as long as I stay healthy, I face the prospect of not coming within six feet of another human for two to 18 months.
In some ways, I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, thrust into a foreign land and threatened by menacing forces, as I wait helplessly for a “great and powerful” would-be magician to take me, well, out of my home.
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