Twenty-five months into the pandemic, I finally caught COVID. It turned out that two-plus years of masking and distancing, Zoom dinner parties and FaceTime holidays, canceled plans and postponed vacations only delayed the inevitable. I’m sick too.
And here on the fourth day of my isolation, I can say one thing with certainty: This is all your fault.
I know that sounds petty, but I can’t help it. For some reason, I’ve spent a majority of my first 96 hours in quarantine trying to figure out who I can blame. The possibilities are endless.
