Y’all, I’m done. I don’t have the energy to look back on 2020 or close it out in any meaningful, eloquent way. I don’t have any snappy hilarity to share or attempts at silver linings. I mean, I’m ending the year deciding between whether I want subcutaneous injections or intravenous infusions to “aggressively treat” my RA and heading back for a Dec 30 follow-up mammogram and ultrasound after my first-ever mammo earlier this month. I don’t even want to say that I’m wishing for better in 2021. I mean, I couldn’t wait for 2019 to end, and look what fucking happened.
This is not to say I’ve lost track of how lucky I am. I look at that balance sheet every day. I feel that luck in my bones, like the stupid synovial fluid seeping in between my joints but in a good way. Hell, I’ve spent the past several blog posts this year highlighting it, even giving silver linings a shot. But I’m fucking tired. As my sister-in-law put it in a recent text when I expressed guilt over being late with my nieces’ Jewmas presents: “This year, as you know, has been a complete dumpster fire. We are all lucky to get out of bed and put on pants each day, let alone shop for gifts.”
Even an introvert built for fear and isolation needs a break now and then. So, I’m taking a shortcut and telling myself that’s OK. I’m linking you back to 2019 Can Suck It. I hope you’ll give it a reread, but you do you. And I’m leaving you with a picture of me and my wife snowshoeing in the Rockefeller State Park Preserve because that’s the kind of lucky fucking lesbarus we are.
Second verse, same as the first,
Jessica the Westchesbian
Jessica lives with her shiksa wife and geriatric cat in picturesque Tarrytown on the Hudson. Although a proud Westchesbian these days, Jessica grew up in Asheville, North Carolina, back when the opening of the Olive Garden and the 24-hour Walmart were big news. During business hours, Jessica’s a communications professional who translates highly technical concepts into clear, concise, colloquial language that media buyers and sellers can understand. Outside of business hours, she’s a poet, cat mom, wife, avid reader, and lover of questionable crime, sci-fi, and supernatural TV shows (preferably all in one), not necessarily in that order. Her poetry has appeared in Tin House, The Paris Review, LIT, and The Huffington Post, among others.