On the three-year anniversary of America's COVID-19 oh-shit moment—when Tom Hanks announced he had contracted the potentially deadly virus and the NBA suspended the rest of its season—I looked down at the little testing rectangle and said "Oh, shoot."
It was more observationally interesting than existentially nerve-rattling to experience my second official case of COVID in the same old epicenter of the March 2020 freakout; like rewatching The Blair Witch Project years later on home video. No dramatic life-and-death tension, no eerie shutdown of America's busiest streets, no cathartic/primal banging on pots and pans in the front patio at 7 p.m. sharp.
