It’s 8:30 on a Monday morning, and I’ve been in quarantine for 23 days. Or more. I’ve lost track of time. As I wrote that, I had to double check if it was Monday on my phone calendar.
A month ago, I was on a connecting flight in San Francisco to go to Europe and Morocco indefinitely (okay, probably like a month because money doesn’t grow on trees):
It was to be my Eat, Pray, Love debut. I was going to write my book, figure out what I wanted my career to be (I’m going through a quarter-life crisis, we’ll call it), go makeup free, taste Cafe Con Leche at cafes, wander the streets of Europe again in flowing skirts and stop in Seville in southern Spain to reminisce of my year there as an au pair (I do not recommend being an au pair FYI but I DO recommend living in Spain), and generally have this momentous moment of human freedom in recovery.
